Return of Valyria
by Jaenera Targaryen
Summary: Four hundred years ago, Valyria was destroyed in the Doom. Or so it seemed, for now, Valyria has returned.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Return of Valyria

Prologue

The first sign that something had gone terribly wrong was a blinding flash of light, backlighting the dragon and its rider as they rode high in the sky, on patrol over the waters of the Summer Sea. As the light faded, the rider turned her head, violet eyes widening and mouth falling in shock and horror as a wave of displaced air blasted outwards from the horizon, blowing the clouds outward even as the skies beyond glowed a sullen red.

"Aelarys, brace yourself!" the rider shouted, pulling on the steel chains that were her mount's reigns, and doing likewise on the mental bonds between her and her dragon.

Aelarys snarled in understanding, beating his wings and picking up speed and altitude, to ride out the incoming wall of air. Already its edges were flowing over dragon and rider both, whipping through the rider's cloak and stray strands of gold-silver air. "Courage, Aelarys." Jaenera Targaryen breathed, and holding tight to both her dragon's reigns and bonds, as she shared in Aelarys' instincts warning him of what was coming from behind them. "Courage."

And then it struck, sending dragon and rider alike plummeting and spinning through the air, down towards the waters below. Jaenera nearly found herself thrown off her saddle, were it not for the chains which bound her to the saddle itself. Even then, the force of impact nearly knocked her unconscious, the dragonrider struggling to regain herself, a task made even more difficult by their uncontrolled fall from the sky. Aelarys was no different, the dragon flailing and snapping as they fell…

…but slowly and steadily, they regained their minds, and steadying their fall, Aelarys beat his wings, spray flying off the ocean surface from the dragon's claws and tails as they skimmed low, picking up speed until finally, they rose up into a bright and sunny sky.

Jaenera looked around in confusion, over the waters and back to Valyria. There were few clouds in the sky, and no sign of the cataclysm that had nearly struck them down to the waters below. Only a clear and sunny sky in summer, the Sun shining bright and hot high overhead.

"…what's happened?" Jaenera muttered, and then narrowing her eyes pulled on Aelarys' reigns. "Aelarys! Come about! We need to get back to the Freehold! Something's not right here!"

The dragon snarled his acknowledgement, and then banking to one side, shifted direction, flying over the Summer Sea, back to Valyria. It took them nearly two hours to reach their destination, the city of Aryros, along the west coast of the Valryian Peninsula.

Great black walls of fused stone, forged by fire and magic, rose from the land in a mighty seawall, with long quays of grey stone jutting out to sea and lined with piers and docks for ships. Great gates offered passage from these quays into the city through the seawall, though at present they were open. Flying over the seawall, Jaenera noticed there was plenty of agitation down in the city below…

…no, not agitation. It was a full-blown slave revolt from the look of things, and the City Guard was hard-pressed to keep the slaves from completely overrunning the city. The garrison had had to be called in, and smoke was rising from many parts of the city as Valyrian Legionaries and Aryros Guardsmen fought rebels in the streets.

Hearing a roar in the distance, Jaenera looked in its direction, and saw twelve dragons and their riders flying in a great V over the city. The rider at the lead gestured as Jaenera approached, and nodding at the signed instructions, took her place at one end of the formation.

The lead rider gestured again, the dragons beating their wings and climbing ever steeper at their riders' instructions, and then folding their wings, allowed themselves to fall, backwards, and then down to the city below. Striking down with the light of the Sun behind their backs, they fell on the rebellious slaves below with a shouted command, a single word dreaded by countless peoples from one end of the known world to another.

" _DRACARYS!_ "

* * *

Days had passed since that terrible day, when the ground shook and fire split the sky for a single, terrible moment of fire and power, only for it all to end, to disappear as though nothing had happened, in a single moment. That single moment however, had triggered numerous riots and outright slave revolts across the peninsula, which in many cases had overwhelmed local militias and had required the Freehold's legions to step in, and in several cases, the dragonlords themselves.

Now however, order had been restored in the cities and much of the countryside, though a significant number of slaves had gone to ground in the countryside, attacking random holdings and travelers across the peninsula. The hunt for such miscreants was already well underway, and with a premium being placed on the capture of the rebel slaves: examples needed to be made.

But with the slave revolts put down and all that was left cleaning up the remaining pockets of resistance, the leaders of the Freehold turned their attentions onto more pressing concerns. In the Palace of the Freeholders, located at the heart of the city of Valyria itself, the three Triarchs of the Valyrian Freehold met.

They stood on a raised dais at the bottom of a large, marbled amphitheater, arched, open windows high above and candles on golden stands across the amphitheater providing light. The Lords Freeholder or their proxies sat on the tiered seats, those of lower rank and standing at the higher and more distant levels, while those closer to the Triarchs were those representing or leading the forty dragonlord families, greatest and mightiest of the Lords Freeholder.

"…unable to raise any of our outposts outside of the peninsula," a civil servant reported to the Triarchs and the Lords Freeholder from the speaker's podium. "Whether it be at the Jade Gates in the east, Dragonstone in the west, Sarnor in the north, or Gogossos in the south. Furthermore, the large numbers of slaves killed in the recent uprising, along with property damages both in the cities and the countryside, will cost the Freehold an estimated nine hundred thousand gold marks in cold coin. It must be noted that this is only a preliminary assessment, and may still change in the future."

The Lords Freeholder immediately began muttering and talking softly to each other, the Triarchs allowing them to speak for a whole minute before gesturing for silence. "What of the Free Cities?" Triarch Laemar Lennareon asked. "Have we been able to raise them via glass candle?"

"There has been no response from any of the Free Cities via glass candle." The civil servant answered. "However, on the matter of glass candles, our sorcerers put forward disturbing reports based on remote viewing through those same glass candles. First of all, our subject kingdoms in the north have apparently been destroyed, and Dothraki tribes now wander freely at will across the ruins and the Great Grass Sea."

The civil servant broke off as the Lords Freeholder erupted in consternation and outrage, the loss of Valyria's subject kingdoms in the Great Grass Sea a heavy blow to Valyrian pride and power. Those subject kingdoms had been among the Freehold's first conquests outside of the Valyrian Peninsula, won during the Third and Fourth Ghiscari Wars. Furthermore, they provided significant revenues both in coin and in kind, while the annual levies provided plenty of men for both the legions and the auxiliaries.

It was no surprise then, that the Lords Freeholder exploded in anger, calling for the Dothraki to be put back into their place, and demanding to know how this had happened.

Again, the Triarchs allowed the Lords Freeholder to express themselves for a full minute, before calling for order. Once the Lords Freeholder had calmed down, the Triarchs motioned for the civil servant to continue.

"Second," the man continued. "To our east, the Ghiscari culture has apparently enjoyed something of an upswing, though thankfully a new, Ghiscari Empire has not actually risen."

There were murmurs and small eruptions from the Lords Freeholder, expressing their discontent at the despised Ghiscari somehow reviving themselves from the depths into which the Valyrians had cast them into thousands of years ago. "Qarth has apparently seized control of the Jade Gates," the civil servant continued. "Which would explain our inability to contact our outpost therein. However, the sorcerers saw no signs of battle damage over at the Jade Gates, and indeed, if anything the infrastructure of the regions shows decades, if not centuries of Qartheen influence and rule."

The Lords Freeholder again began speaking amongst themselves, this time in confusion and disbelief, before being silenced by the Triarchs once more. "To our distant north," the civil servant continued. "Our tributary of Sarnor is in ruins, with only what appears to be a small, barely-subsisting city left. And once again, it seems the Dothraki are to blame for this."

Ripples of anger again echoed across the amphitheater, a retribution campaign against the Dothraki now all but guaranteed. "To the west," the civil servant said. "The continued existence of all Free Cities has been confirmed, though as with the Qartheen influence on the Jade Gates, the cities all appear to be older than they should be. Furthermore, there appears to be open, if small-scale warfare across the lands between the cities of Volantis, Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr. Judging from the quality and standards of the forces involved…mercenaries, contracted to one or another of the aforementioned cities."

There was muttering again, the Lords Freeholder grumbling among themselves on why the Daughters of Valyria had descended to killing each other, and what had happened? Why did the Free Cities seem older than they ought to be? How could Qarth have gained control of the Jade Gates, and held them for what seemed to be centuries?

Some of the more learned Lords Freeholder, especially among the Dragonlords and those known to dabble in sorcery, had their suspicions about the answer, though they kept their silence…for now.

"Across the Narrow Sea," the civil servant continued with his report. "Dragonstone appears to have fallen under the control of one of the Andal nobles if the standards flying above the castle and its fleet is any indication. Driftmark and Claw Isle appear to have suffered a similar fate."

The civil servant paused to allow the Triarchs and the Lords Freeholder to absorb the report. Murmurs and conversation echoed in the amphitheater as the Triarchs and the Lords Freeholder considered the news brought before them, and to prepare ideas and proposals on how to proceed. Eventually, the Triarchs called for silence, and then turned back to the civil servant.

"Do the sorcerers manning the glass candles have any answers to the questions how and why?" a Triarch asked.

The civil servant drew himself up. "They do, Honored Triarchs." He said. "The sorcerers believed the upheaval of the earth during the previous week was caused by an unprecedented mass eruption of the Fourteen Flames."

Gasps of shock and horror echoed across the chamber, but no one could say anything. Not when they knew the only possible outcome of such an event, and how and why the world had changed so much beyond recognition.

"Then how are we still here?" Triarch Laeraenar Aggaeron asked.

"The sorcerers believe the eruption triggered a fail-safe, a final and incredibly-powerful enchantment cast by some of the mightiest sorcerers among our ancestors, in the event such a disaster occurred." The civil servant answered. "As for what it did…they hypothesize that the fail-safe moved the Freehold, or at least its heart, to the future…where we are now."

For several long moments, there was only silence. And then the Triarchs began to nod among themselves. "Yes." Triarch Aenerya Baelarion said. "That would explain why the Dothraki have been able to run rampant, how those Ghiscari were able to pull themselves out of their graves, how our tributaries have either become shadows of themselves or too big for their boots, and how the Daughters of Valyria have descended into killing their sisters. Without Valyria, without our strong hand upholding the values of civilization, Essos has all but fallen apart."

The other Triarchs nodded their agreement, and the Lords Freeholder murmured among themselves, but with a general air of agreement. "So," one of the Lords Freeholder, seated on the second tier of seats from the ground, began. "How far in the future are we?"

"It is difficult to tell." The civil servant said. "The sorcerers estimate between one to five centuries. It cannot be less as if so then Essos would be more chaotic from the fallout of Valyria's apparent destruction, and more…well, in truth the sorcerers used an upper limit of five centuries as a reasoned assumption to base future adjustments on in the future."

"That is reasonable." The Lord Freeholder said with a nod. Looking around him at his fellows, he rose to his feet. The Triarchs drew themselves up in response.

"The Triarchy recognizes Lord Freeholder Aenarion Gaeltigar." Triarch Aenerya said formally.

"Honored Triarchs," Aenarion began. "Fellow Freeholders, I move that the Valyrian Freehold immediately begin preparations and to gather additional information on the state of the world, with the goals of first reclaiming traditional Valyrian territories and spheres of influence, and second to restore time-honored law and justice to the known world."

"I second the motion." A Lord Freeholder from the upper tiers called out, followed by a chorus of support from across the Lords Freeholder.

"Order!" Triarch Laemar shouted. "We will have order!"

"As the motion has been seconded," Triarch Laeraenar began. "The Lords Freeholder will vote on the motion to prepare and gather information for the reclamation of lost lands and to uphold the mandate of law and justice over the known world."

The Lords Freeholder shouted their support, the clerk on duty pulling out a sheet of paper to tally the votes. Once he was done, the Triarchs gestured and called for silence, and as it fell, the clerk began calling names. One by one, the Lords Freeholder voted on the measure, the Triarchs abstaining at the very end.

The clerk tallied up the votes, and then signing off on the final result rose from his bench to approach the Triarchs. Presenting the results of the vote to the Triarchs with a bow, the Triarchs accepted and examined the result.

"By unanimous vote," Triarch Laemar said solemnly. "The Valyrian Freehold adopts the motion to prepare and gather information for the reclamation of lost lands and to uphold the mandate of law and justice over the known world."

* * *

A/N

Welp, let's see where this goes, shall we?


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Return of Valyria

Chapter 1

In a chamber located high in the Palace of the Freeholders, the Triarchs of the Valyrian Freehold sat around a large, round table of polished wood. Large, open windows looked out over the great city of Valyria itself, and let natural light shine into the room. The walls were decorated with fine, Qohori tapestries, depicting scenes of victory from Valyria's long and storied history.

"…what did you say?" Triarch Aenerya Baelarion asked incredulously. "How much of our army is left?"

"We have twenty legions left." Triarch Laeraenar Aggaeron answered. "About one hundred thousand legionaries all told. And about the same number of auxiliaries, for a grand total of an estimated two hundred thousand men in the Valyrian Army."

"Two hundred thousand…out of six hundred thousand…you do realize this means the Valyrian Army is effectively destroyed, don't you?"

"Calm yourself." Triarch Laeraenar said. "It could be worse. No…we know it was worse, if not for that failsafe our ancestors put in place. To think we never knew…"

A somber silence and air fell over the Triarchs, the mightiest men and woman in the entire Valyrian Freehold, or indeed, the known world. To think it could all have been over in an instant, how thousands of years of history would have become as nothing…

"We've forgotten much, though it's understandable." Triarch Laemar Lennareon said with a sigh. It's been five thousand years, after all. Plenty of time to forget a lot of things."

"Some things should _never_ be forgotten." Triarch Aenerya snapped.

"I agree." Triarch Laeraenar said with a nod. "I propose we have the sorcerers and other bodies look into obscure and half-forgotten – if not all but forgotten – elements of our history. What was done, both openly and in secret, why and how, virtually everything related to them, and compile them in public – if not necessarily _open_ – record. What is written endures, after all."

"A prudent call…" Triarch Laemar said with a nod. He glanced at Triarch Aenerya, who nodded at him. "Very well, we'll adopt the proposal. Back to the army though…will two hundred thousand men be enough to reclaim all of Essos?"

"Probably not all at once…" Triarch Laeraenar said with a sigh. "And that doesn't factor in other limitations that will slow down reclamation. The economic implications of our being…displaced, into the future will be troublesome to say the least. That said, our ancestors started out with much less, and look where we are now."

"Well, that much is true." Triarch Laemar agreed. "It might have taken us thousands of years to get here…but here we are."

"In other words," Triarch Aenerya said. "Even if we can't finish it, we should at least reclaim a strong foundation for our children to build on, and for their children or their children's children to finish what we started?"

The Triarch paused and laughed. "I suppose that's not so bad." She said.

The other Triarchs nodded their agreement. "On brighter notes," Triarch Laeraenar began. "We have plenty of dragonriders to call on. It's not the be all and end all of war, but it will greatly multiply what we are capable of, even with less than half our army available. And while we've lost the station fleet at Dragonstone, or the one at the Jade Gates and other places, the Grand Fleet is still intact, as are other, smaller fleets stationed here at the homeland."

"So the navy is virtually intact then?" Triarch Laemar asked. "That's good to know. And very reassuring indeed."

"I wouldn't say virtually intact," Triarch Laeraenar corrected. "But yes, it's largely intact. Enough to establish naval supremacy in the Summer Sea at least, and once our economy has recovered a bit, to project power into the Narrow Sea as well."

"Assuming we can count on the Free Cities to support us, of course." Triarch Aenerya remarked, tapping her fingers thoughtfully on the table. "It's been four hundred years from their perspective, after all. A lot of things can change in that time."

"You don't really think they'd have turned from the Freehold in that time, do you?" Triarch Laeraenar asked.

"Against the Freehold?" Triarch Aenerya echoed. "No…but since we haven't been around for four hundred years, I would say they've drifted away from us. And can we blame them? We've been gone for so long, it's only natural they'd diverge from the way things stood centuries ago."

There was a thoughtful silence at that. "Certainly," Triarch Laeraenar began unhappily. "Considering what we've seen…the banners of the various daughters fighting in the lands of southwestern Essos…to think they've broken the taboo…"

"Valyrians against Valyrians…civil war in all but name…" Triarch Laemar grumbled. "What a mess…and we might just have to sink to their level to restore order as well."

"…it might be a case of 'cannot be helped', I'm afraid." Triarch Aenerya said softly, sighing as her fellow Triarchs nodded as well in unhappy agreement. "Though it does bring up an important point: reclamation is all well and good, but we cannot assume that can we bring things back to the way they used to be four hundred years ago, at least from the perspective of the people of this time."

"What?" the other Triarchs asked incredulously.

"Don't misunderstand." Triarch Aenerya said. "I'm not against reclamation, I'm just saying we should adapt our plans and strategies for doing so with the times we're in. Take the Great Grass Sea, for instance. I find myself wondering that even if we gathered together every auxiliary we've levied from the kingdoms which once stood there, and had them try and rebuild their former nations, would they succeed? The answer is fairly obvious, isn't it?"

"…then what do you suggest then?" Triarch Laemar asked.

Triarch Aenerya shrugged. "They're auxiliaries." She said. "Once they complete their term of service, they'll be granted citizenship in the Freehold. I say we add to that land grants in the Great Grass Sea once they've been reconquered, and annex the whole region into the Freehold."

"…that's not such a bad idea." Triarch Laemar said after a few moments' thought.

"Indeed," Triarch Laeraenar said with a slow nod. "We'll have to look into the details further, but it's not a bad idea at all."

Triarch Aenerya nodded her acknowledgement, and Triarch Laemar smiled. "Any other bright ideas, Honored Triarch?" he asked.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Honored Triarch." Triarch Aenerya said. "But yes, I do have another idea."

"Oh?"

"I say we make our first move towards Volantis."

"Volantis?"

Triarch Aenerya nodded. "Yes, Volantis." She said. "The Eldest Daughter has always been very…loyal, to the Freehold. Where the other Free Cities experimented with and adopted other variants of the Freehold's government, Volantis followed our model almost slavishly. The same goes for their society, albeit with a marked prejudice for those of actual Valyrian descent not present in the Freehold."

"…almost as though they're compensating for something…" Triarch Laeraenar said softly. "Not really certain why, though. They're as Valyrian as any of the other Free Cities, or as the Freehold itself."

"The Volantenes' issues with their identity aside," Triarch Laemar said. "It's not a bad idea. And I see the point: Volantis has historically been the most loyal and supportive of the Free Cities. The cities to the far north have always chafed at our decrees, though given Qohor, Norvos, and Lorath were all founded by a bunch of religious fanatics it's to be expected. And don't even get me started on the Bastard Daughter."

"We should reach out to Volantis diplomatically." Triarch Aenerya said. "If they remain as loyal to us now as they were four hundred years ago, it would make a good first step towards reclamation."

"I notice you say 'if'." Triarch Laeraenar said with narrowed eyes.

"Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst." Triarch Aenerya said with a shrug. "Which means that while we should reach out diplomatically, we should also back it up with a show of force."

The other Triarchs looked at each other, and then back to their fellow Triarch. "What do you have in mind?" they asked, and Triarch Aenerya smiled.

* * *

Several days had passed since the Triarchs and the Assembly of the Lords Freeholder had publicly admitted that the heartland had been transported about four hundred years into the future, thanks to an incredibly-powerful enchantment cast by their ancestors in the past. A grand and powerful undertaking of sorcery to protect the cradle and heart of Valyrian civilization, should the whims of nature turn the source of Valyria's power, the Fourteen Flames, against it.

It was a source of comfort in these uncertain times, that even in those ancient days, the Valyrian people and their sorcerers possessed great foresight and power to protect against such a calamity. And uncertain times it was, for in the four hundred years since as the rest of the world perceived it, much had changed.

Dothraki hordes rampaged unchecked across the grass-covered ruins of Central Essos. A new, Ghiscari Empire was gestating in the waters and coasts of the Gulf of Grief to the east, while to the west the Free Cities had fallen into near-anarchy, consumed by petty ambitions and feuds that pitted Valyrian against Valyrian.

The Triarchs gave their word to the people that come what may, the Freehold would endure, and overcoming its trials, restore unity, order, and justice to the lands of Essos. All that was left of the Freehold might be the ancestral homeland of the Valyrian Peninsula, and the rich and fertile Lands of the Long Summer to the north, but their ancestors had started out with less, and over thousands of years of perseverance and fortitude had become the greatest bastion of civilization in the known world.

The knowledge that Valyria had faced worse in the past and had triumphed, and that even the whims of nature were nothing against the power and knowledge possessed by Valyria anchored the Freehold with renewed purpose to reclaim what had been, and to build greater in the future. From the mightiest dragonlord in their palaces to the poorest citizen on the street, Valyrians guarded against despair.

In contrast, the slaves despaired. Neither nature's wrath unleashed nor the divine retribution of the gods it seemed could bring down the self-proclaimed Lords of the Flames and the Sky…

…and so they resigned themselves, that nothing would change, and their lot in life would continue as it had, bound by chains of iron and magic to their gold and silver-haired and violet-eyed masters. So it had been. So it is. And so it will ever be.

In the city of Aryros, a large building loomed over a garden of green grass, flowing water, flowering bushes and fruiting trees. Valyrians wandered over the grounds, or sat in the terraces and balconies, relishing in the cool air and shadows, served food and drink by slaves.

Jaenera sat on a second floor balcony, alone at a table nursing a glass of wine. Soft strains drifted out of the room behind, a musician from distant Yi Ti playing a three-stringed instrument on a platform in a corner.

The dragonlord raised her wineglass to her lips, taking a sip while narrowing her eyes at the sound of approaching footsteps. "Ah, I knew it." Manaemys Vaelgyreon said as she approached, and took a seat even without being invited. "Drowning your sorrows, I see."

"Come off it, Manaemys." Daerys Tarralis said, also taking a seat at Jaenera's table. "Besides, you can talk. Your family, both immediate and extended, are still here in the homeland. Jae's though…"

Daerys nodded sympathetically at their friend. "You have our condolences." He said.

"Thanks." Jaenera said, and Manaemys scratched her head.

"Yeah, sorry about that." She said. "I suppose it was rather insensitive of me."

"It's fine." Jaenera said, gesturing for a server to bring more wine. "It's just like you though. Besides, we dragonlords of low rank have to stick together, so let's not become enemies over small and petty things, especially when the offending party is willing to apologize."

There was laughter at that. "That's true." Manaemys said as a slave brought more glasses and ice along with a bottle of wine.

"Leave us." Jaenera said. "We can pour our own wine."

The slave bowed and left, Jaenera pouring wine for her friends. "To friendship." She said, toasting her friends.

"To friendship." They chorused, but Manaemys paused to add something.

"And to finding family." She said.

Jaenera raised an eyebrow, though she took a mouthful of wine before replying. "Do you really think my brother's descendants are still around?" she asked.

"Hope springs eternal, as my grandmother used to say." Manaemys said.

"Hmm…how very optimistic…"

"You aren't optimistic, I take it." Daerys said.

Jaenera scoffed. "You heard what the Triarchs said." She said. "Even Dragonstone and their surrounding islands are lost, and to Andals of all people. Oh I'm sure Aenar and my sisters or their descendants would have made them pay for it, but there's no way the islands would just have been given up. Damn Andals…when the campaign to retake those islands is launched, I'll be asking to join. Any Andals burned will be as funeral sacrifices to my family's memory."

Daerys shrugged and nodded sympathetically. "Well," he said. "I suppose I can't argue with you there. But…don't you think they might have just gone to one or another of the Free Cities?"

"…I can hope." Jaenera said with another drink of wine. "But, while hope might spring eternal, it might also be the first step on the road to disappointment."

"Oh…very pessimistic…but all too true." Manaemys said with a drink of wine. "That said, don't get too hung up on either outcome. That is, on one hand your family might have died fighting to the last man to defend the last stronghold of the Freehold, or on the other hand, they were forced to flee in defeat, to exile in one of the Free Cities."

"If the former," Daerys said. "Then feel free to avenge their memory on the Andals when the time comes. If the latter, then rejoice! You won't be alone anymore."

"I don't mind being alone." Jaenera said. "Besides, as long as I have Aelarys, I'm never really alone."

"He was your mother's dragon, wasn't he?" Manaemys asked.

"He was." Jaenera said with a nod. "But now he's mine…my other half…"

Daerys and Manaemys nodded in agreement. As dragonlords themselves, they knew what Jaenera was talking about, the deep bond that linked a true rider with their mount.

"Either way though…" Daerys began. "Seeing as you're by default the senior member of House Targaryen, wouldn't you be Lord Freeholder now?"

"Lord Freeholder Jaenera Targaryen…it has a nice ring to it." Manaemys said.

Jaenera laughed. "Maybe," she said. "I'll have to check up on the legalities of such things when I have the time. Not that being Lord Freeholder of what is by now the smallest and weakest of the forty families is worth much but…"

Jaenera paused and took a drink. "I wouldn't want to have my ancestors turn in shame when I join them on the other side either." She concluded. "Really…if I really am the last Targaryen, I'll have the responsibility of rebuilding the family…literally. What a pain…a son and a daughter as a bare minimum…"

Daerys and Manaemys looked at each other, and then smiling mischievously, Daerys turned back to Jaenera. "Well," he said. "If you ever need… _help_ , rebuilding your family, I'm sure my father said his doors were open to you. And my family has too many sons and too few daughters, so I'm sure we can part with one of the former, if you get what I mean."

"Oh? Are you propositioning me, Daerys?" Jaenera slyly said, as Manaemys nudged Daerys with an elbow.

"What? No! I was just…! Oh damn it!"

Jaenera and Manaemys laughed at Daerys' expense, the dragonlord drinking deep of his wine to mask his embarrassment.

* * *

Two days later, and Jaenera was walking through the Palace of the Freeholders, down a marbled hallway lit with candles in golden scones and decorated with sculptures, portraits, and tapestries. The man guiding her came to a halt outside a door, and knocked a few times. "Dragonrider Jaenera Targaryen has arrived." He said.

"Send her in." a muffled voice said from inside.

The man opened the door, and with a bow and a gesture, bade Jaenera to enter. The dragonrider entered…

…and as the door closed behind her, Jaenera bowed respectfully to the man within. "Honored Triarch," she said. "How may I be of service?"

"You will know soon enough, young dragonrider." Triarch Laeraenar said. "You have heard of the planned dispatch for Volantis, yes?"

"I have." Jaenera said. "Aryros is a major port, and while not a naval base enough ships pass by for word to spread of warships mustering elsewhere for sea. That, and merchant shipping being commandeered to carry men and supplies."

Triarch Laeraenar nodded. "And what else do you know of the planned dispatch?" he asked.

"Apart from a large fleet, at least two legions, maybe more, will be sent to Volantis." Jaenera said. "Auxiliaries, of course, and a few dragonriders."

"Hard to believe those could be gathered from mere rumors."

"With all due respect, there are rumors, and there are rumors."

"Oh?"

"I am part of the Aryros garrison." Jaenera said. "And an officer, so I hear more and from more reliable sources. Albeit lacking in details, and of course, I know better than to pry."

"Indeed." Triarch Laeraenar said with an amused snort. "I trust you have been discreet with what you have heard though...?"

"Some things are not meant for public consumption, at least until the Freehold sees fit for them to be."

The Triarch laughed. "Indeed," he said. "Very well…yes, we will be sending a large fleet to Volantis, about four hundred and thirty ships in fact. Three legions will be coming, along with the same number of men in auxiliaries. And forty dragonriders…"

Triarch Laeraenar paused and tilted his head. "I'm sure you're aware of the significance of that number." He said. It wasn't a question, and Jaenera knew it.

She drew herself up. "One from each of the forty dragonlord families." She said.

"Yes," Triarch Laeraenar said with a nod. "And now you see our problem. House Targaryen is all but gone. They fled in advance of the mass eruption, thanks to the unfairly-dismissed visions of Lord Freeholder Aenar's daughter warning them of the coming catastrophe. Most wise of him, and most unwise of us to dismiss it: if not for our ancestors' precautions, neither you nor I would be standing here and now."

Jaenera closed her eyes. "My…brother, and my sisters…" she said softly. "It's been four hundred years. Even us dragonlords don't live that long."

"No, we do not." Triarch Laeraenar said with another nod. "Even we are not untouchable by death itself. And we don't know if your brother and his sister-wives have any remaining descendants in this day and age. Dragonstone after all, was entrusted to them. And yet it is now in Andal hands."

"My brother at least…would not have allowed it to fall into enemy hands." Jaenera said. "Not without a fight…"

"Indeed not," Triarch Laeraenar said with a nod. "But Lord Freeholder Aenar was no fool either, as we now know. There may yet be descendants of his living in some of the Free Cities. If so…then perhaps you are not the last of House Targaryen."

Jaenera was silent for a moment, and then bowed slightly. "I can only hope, Honored Triarch." She said.

The man smiled sympathetically. "There is more hope than not." He said. "In any case, you are now the senior member of House Targaryen. And while there are those who simply argue for your house to be dissolved and declared extinct…it would be a shame for one of the forty, whose lineage goes back to the founding of the Freehold, to disappear. Especially when hope still remains for its revival. Small, yes, but it is there. You understand what I'm saying, do you not?"

Jaenera bowed low. "I am humbled and grateful for your confidence, Honored Triarch." She said.

Triarch Laeraenar nodded. "Then, Lord Freeholder Jaenera Targaryen," he said. "Go and prepare. The fleet will be departing from Inneqor tomorrow morning, and the Lords Freeholder will be honoring its departure with their presence. You should be among them…and you will be among those who rendezvous with the fleet when it arrives at Volantis, as well."

Jaenera drew herself up. "I understand, Honored Triarch." She said. "With your leave, I shall depart, and prepare to meet my humble responsibilities."

The Triarch nodded, and with a bow Jaenera turned to leave. But even as her hand touched the door handle, the Triarch spoke behind her. "Lord Freeholder Targaryen," he said. "I will have expectations of you."

Jaenera turned and bowed in silence, and then opening the door, left.

* * *

The sea breeze blew cool and crisp from the sea, the morning skies above clear and blue dotted with white and puffy clouds. Dragons wheeled and flew in the air, children across the city of Inneqor pointing and chattering in awe at the great beasts high above.

The fleet to be dispatched to Volantis was anchored in formation in the waters off the harbor, mostly single-banked galleys but also including a number of older, two or even three-banked dromon-type vessels. There were no carracks though, as the new type of warship was still relatively-rare, with the Valyrian Navy's only carracks being concentrated in the Grand Fleet.

Though the new, Myrish-designed vessels were completely superior to any kind of ships on the high seas (in shallower or narrower waters the galley retained the edge against a carrack), ships were expensive to build or replace. As such, dromons remained the backbone of the greater part of the Valyrian Navy…for now.

In addition to warships, the fleet also included a large number of cogs, not the best for warfare on the high seas, but excelling as transports, for both men and supplies. Legionaries and auxiliaries from the Valyrian Army stood at attention on their decks, in contrast to the bustling decks of the warships. There, sailors busied themselves on their duties, with the exception of the artillery crews, who stood at attention next to their ballistae and traction trebuchets. Originally designed in Yi Ti, the Sarnori had introduced the traction trebuchet to Central Essos during the Third and Fourth Ghiscari Wars, and through Valyria into Western Essos.

More soldiers stood on the docks or the battlements of Innoqor's seawall, legionaries providing an honor guard to see the dispatch to Volantis off. The Triarchs were all present, seated in a shaded pavilion atop the seawall, the pavilion flanked by the Lords Freeholder and their companions as they saw the fleet off.

"That's a lot of ships." Daerys observed.

"No, really, it isn't." Jaenera said before smiling at her friend. "In about two days I'll be off to Volantis as well. Shame neither you nor Manaemys will be able to come along."

"Father wants my eldest brother to represent the family at Volantis, and as far as I know the same goes for Manaemys' family." Daerys said.

"Shame."

"Right," Daerys said. "Still…there's hope for the future. There's New Ghis to the east, and while I doubt Volantis will put up much of a fuss, the same can't be said for those damn Ghiscari. Maybe even the Qartheen. If so, then the three of us will be able to ride together."

"And from the skies they reign," Jaenera softly sang. "On wings of fire, the Lords of the Flames and the Sky, whose coming heralds the wrath, the ruin, and the world's ending…"

Jaenera trailed off as trumpeters blew stirring and triumphant notes, crimson cloth emblazoned with golden dragons hanging from bronze instruments. Thrice the trumpeters blew, and from the fleet more trumpets answered as they raised their anchors. And then slowly, rhythmically, drumbeats could be heard, oars stirring as the fleet set out.

Their destination: Volantis the Great, Eldest Daughter of Valyria.

* * *

A/N

Just for reference, it's 290 AC.


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Return of Valyria

Chapter 2

The return of Valyria was heralded elsewhere by portents and omens for good and ill.

In Volantis the Great, Eldest Daughter of Valyria, the sacred flames within the Temple of the Lord of Light roared high, the priests, priestesses, and the acolytes tasked with caring for the flames seeing a thousand visions within their golden tongues. In the streets of Volantis and her sisters, followers of the Lord of the Light were shaken, and speaking in the countless tongues of men, spoke of the return of the Lord of Light's elder children, the Lords of the Flames and the Sky, gifted with the Lord of Light's power made flesh.

In Lys the Beautiful, horror stalked through the city as statues of the Weeping Lady literally wept tears of blood. Slaves and freedmen, citizens and foreigners, trembled at night as they heard a woman's voice weeping and wailing in the streets, crying out a warning to the city which had turned against its makers nearly four hundred years ago.

 _My children…my children…we are about to go…_

Qohor and Norvos alike descended into civil war, as within their walls their shadow rulers, the Priests of the Black Goat for the former, and the Bearded Priests for the latter, were shattered into numerous, schismatic factions born of visions granted by their gods. Religious fervor and differing interpretations of those visions fueled tensions which were sparked into outright bloodshed by acts of treachery.

Even Braavos, the Bastard Daughter of Valyria, was not spared, for on the same night as Valyria returned, those passing by the House of Black and White were shaken…by the sound of laughter. Ghastly, insane, and inhuman laughter as though from thousands upon thousands of throats, which would haunt their sleep for months on end.

Even more distant places such as Lorath or even the Seven Kingdoms were not exempt. Whispers could be heard from the mazes of Lorath, and any and all who entered the mazes to find their sources never returned. In the Seven Kingdoms, the Dragonmont erupted, on a scale unseen in recorded memory.

Dragonstone reeled from the force of the eruption, and in the castle itself numerous servants went mad, claiming the magic-sculpted statuary around them were alive, screaming of whispers and judging, inhuman, and glowing _eyes_ staring at them from the shadows. In distant Oldtown an air of unease hung over the Citadel, as glass candles which had not burned for hundreds of years now glowed as though with inner fire.

Weirwoods whispered in the breeze and the shadows, and wandering preachers emerged from among the masses, proclaiming the end of days had come, for all to repent, and to return of the light of the Seven. Others denounced the Lannisters for their greed and arrogance, that it would only bring ruin and death to the people of Westeros, and others more condemned the king, warning that his choosing vengeance over justice would only ensure his reign's end in fire and blood.

Secular leaders across the world were unimpressed. In the Seven Kingdoms, King Robert Baratheon did not miss the wording the preachers used to prophesy the end of his reign, and for once found common ground with his bitter and spiteful queen. In the Crownlands and the Westerlands, such individuals were dragged away by soldiers loyal to the Baratheon Dynasty and to House Lannister, and publicly hanged on charges of inciting rebellion against the Iron Throne. Elsewhere, they were tolerated with unease by the local lords, save only in Dorne, where the preachers' condemnations of the Lannisters and of the king were met with enthusiastic acceptance by the lords and smallfolk alike, their hatred of the usurper and his allies having simmered and festered for far too long.

In Braavos, the keyholders and the magisters, and the Sealord himself viewed the rapturous preaching of the followers of the Lord of Light with only passing regard. More pressing to them were matters of the world, such as the ebb and flow of trade, the making and sailing of ships, and the coming and going of traders and merchants. Even the incident at the House of Black and White was of little interest, for it had only happened once, and was not repeated. In any case, each and every faith was free to preach their beliefs in Braavos as long as they followed the laws of the city, and even news of the religious civil wars in Norvos and Qohor were disquieting only in the sense that it disrupted the flow of trade along the major caravan routes they sat upon.

In Volantis, the Triarchs and other high officials of the city viewed the rising swell of religious fervor with disfavor in the sense that it threatened their power base, whether tradition and historical precedent as in the case of the Old Blood, and flesh and gold in the case of the merchants and indeed, the Old Blood as well.

More concerning to them were reports from ships headed to and from the east, of how the ever-present glow and shadow of the Doom had vanished. None dared sail to see why, for the reputation of the Doom was well-entrenched, and many suspected that it was some form of deception made by the demons which dwelt within the ruins of Valyria, to draw the foolish and the mad to their deaths.

Well over a week passed, and then more news came. This time, they spoke of a great fleet of ships sailing towards Volantis, galleys and dromons, flying red banners emblazoned with golden dragons.

Uproar erupted among the leaders of the city, on who would dare challenge the Eldest Daughter in their own waters, and more importantly how had they come so close to the city without warning. Volantis mustered its fleet, and on the morning of the day after the news came, the Volantene Navy took to sea. And yet, in the city it left behind, there were those among the Old Blood who felt a strange sense of vague recognition at the description of the banners flown by the approaching fleet.

The rest of the day passed eventually, as did the night. But as the Sun rose to the east, they appeared on the horizon to the south, making for the great lagoon of the Rhoyne which Volantis held in its arms. A great fleet of ships, over a thousand-strong, the invaders escorted in honor by the Volantene Navy.

The apparent betrayal came as a heavy blow for the city's leaders, as what could the invaders have possibly offered to turn an entire navy against its home? And then they came, flying though the rose and pearl skies of the dawn, a great flight not seen in centuries, of dragons in the morning. Wheeling and turning in a great spiral over the city, they and their riders danced in the skies, as the fleet lowered their anchors in the city's lagoon.

A dance of dragons.

Ships came, to land on the docks, from Volantis' fleet. Among them was the Volantene flagship, bearing the Admiral of the Fleet, Varynno Baherah. Born of the Old Blood, his irises were like amethysts, and his hair the color of gold and silver blended together: an exiled child of Valyria in this day and age.

And as he stepped onto Volantis' soil once more, he drew himself up with pride and rapture, and loudly proclaimed.

"Hail, Volantis! Valyria has returned!"

* * *

Even as messengers were sent to the Triarchs, the admiral's proclamation spread by word of mouth across the entire city like a forest fire spread through the undergrowth. From the slaves and freemen working on the docks, the news spread to their counterparts on the streets, and then up, through the cracked and worn steps of power and into the palaces of the rich and powerful.

It was impossible, and should have been dismissed as mere delusion, and yet, no one could deny the great dance of dragons in the skies above, or the fleet sitting at anchor in the lagoon, flying banners not seen in centuries. Those few Westerosi present in the city were especially terrified, as they looked up at the sky and at the kin of the kings they had deposed less than a decade before, and fearfully remembered the old saying.

 _Lesser men defied the dragonlords of the Valyrian Freehold at their peril._

The Triarchs, roused from their sleep well before they were accustomed to, assembled along with their sycophants, hangers-on, and allies, to discuss what must be done. But even as they began to ponder the future among themselves, the Valyrians made the first move.

Three dragons spun out of the dance above, and descended onto Old Volantis. The one at the lead was a great beast greater than even the Black Dread in its prime, its scales a rich, deep blue, while its horns, crest, and wing bones were black as the night. Its companions were smaller and were differently-colored, but were equally colossal in scale, each as great as the Black Dread had been.

They descended on the old city, the wind of their wings howling down the ancient streets as they made for the Palace of the Triarchs. Only one, the greatest among them, landed in the triumphal parade grounds before the palace, and even then its bulk was such that the dragon had to keep its wings spread behind itself. The other two flew in a low, slow circle around the palace and the parade grounds, while above the dance of dragons continued, their shadows falling not just over Old Volantis, but across the entire city as the Sun rose into the sky.

A man strode up the dragon's neck, clack in black-enameled plate, a sword at his side. Coming to a halt between his mount's horns, he took off his helm, allowing gold-silver hair to fly in the wind born of the dragons flying above and around. "Triarchs of Volantis," he shouted in a strong and steady voice. "I am Laeraenar Aggaeron, Dragonlord and Triarch of Valyria. We have returned, and we would speak to the Eldest Daughter."

Inside the palace, the Triarchs of Volantis were frozen by indecision, while all around them their sycophants, hangers-on, and allies shouted and argued among themselves. And then the lone tiger among the Triarchs rose to his feet, causing a hush to fall across the great chamber. Striding from the chamber, he ignored the slaves and servants, causing mouths to fall and gasps to be heard as he walked on his own power on the bare ground, out the palace and across the parade grounds.

Coming to a halt before the great dragon and the ominous warmth of its breath, the Triarch of Volantis sank to one knee. "Honored Triarch," the man said. "I am Aerarro Naerelion, Triarch of Volantis. What would Mother Valyria have of our city?"

"The world has changed much, Honored Triarch." Laeraenar answered from atop his dragon. "It has been centuries since the Fourteen Flames erupted all at once by your reckoning. The world has changed a great deal in that time, and not in a beneficial way. Unwashed savages roam through the Great Grass Sea unchecked, amidst ruins of once-great cities and fertile lands. The Daughters of Valyria fight against each other, while lands once under our shadow have fallen into the hands of lesser nations."

"It is as you say, Honored Triarch." Aerarro said. "Though if I may so, much of what you say owes a great deal to Mother Valyria's own absence. If I might ask…how? How did Mother Valyria return? Where has it been all this time?"

"Our ancestors foresaw the potential for calamity should the whims of nature turn the source of our power against it, and cast a great spell in preparation long before any of us were born." Laeraenar answered. "That spell slumbered for millennia, until the foresight of our ancestors was vindicated. To save the homeland from nature's wrath, it was cast across time, to the here and now."

Aerarro was speechless, unable to find words to question or express his awe at the sheer power and mastery Valyria held in magic. "You asked what Valyria would have of your city, Honored Triarch." Laeraenar continued. "Simple: The Freehold would seek to restore order and stability to the lands of Essos, and such would be made easier with Volantis' support."

The Triarch narrowed his eyes. "Tell me, Honored Triarch," he said. "Do you speak for all Volantis? Where are the other Triarchs?"

At that question, there was a commotion in the palace beyond, and Aerarro was silent. Minutes later, the other Triarchs came, like Aerarro walking on the ground to kneel before their Valyrian counterpart atop his dragon. "Volantis," Aerarro spoke. "The Eldest Daughter, has always remained true to the legacy and memory of the Valyrian Freehold. And now that Mother Valyria has returned beyond expectations, we would stand with her, to restore time-honored tradition and the rule of law to the lands of Essos."

Laeraenar nodded in approval. "So be it." He said. "And Volantis shall obtain much honor and reward for its contributions. Shall we discuss the matter in further detail? And we have much to know about what has transpired in the centuries since."

"As you will, Honored Triarch."

* * *

Uproar erupted among the gathered dragonlords as they sat in the Grand Audience Chamber within the Palace of the Triarchs. The Triarchs of Volantis sat at the bottom, at a raised table, joined by Triarch Laeraenar of Valyria. The dragonlords sat around the dais, in tiered seats that rose around the amphitheater's interior.

At present, they were discussing the Century of Blood, which came in the wake of the so-called Doom of Valyria. The self-proclaimed Emperor of Valyria, Aurion of Qohor caused mutterings among the dragonlords about the ambitions of their cadets who used to live in the Free Cities prior to the Doom, but the massacre of those same cadets by the Lyseni and Tyroshi provoked great anger. That the Volantenes assumed it was born of religious hysteria, that the Doom had been a sign of divine retribution, did little to calm the anger of the dragonlords, with all but Triarch Aerarro of Volantis trailing off at the look of cold anger in the face of their Valyrian counterpart seated at the table with them.

"Lys and Tyrosh will be made to take responsibility for their actions." Laeraenar said loudly and firmly. "But that is still in the future. There are other, more pressing objectives which must be met before the Freehold can turn that far to the west. Continue, Honored Triarchs."

The Triarchs of Volantis then told of the coming of the Dothraki, and how the Sarnori and the kingdoms of the Great Grass Sea had been unable to form a united front against the Dothraki until it was too late. The Volantenes also admitted to some shame that they had not attempted to assist the Sarnori, as at the time they were contending with the other Free Cities…as in the wake of Valyria's apparent destruction, Volantis, as the first and eldest of the Free Cities, had claimed the mantle of Valyria's successor and sought to rebuild the Freehold.

This was spoken of with trepidation, with the Volantene Triarchs looking at Laeraenar with some apprehension. The Valyrian Triarch just looked amused though, and motioned for them to continue.

At first, things had gone well. Volantis was able to gain control of the Rhoyne, from its mouth to Dagger Lake. Lys and Myr were also brought under Volantis' control, along with most of southwestern Essos. But when they moved against Tyrosh, Pentos and Braavos declared war, followed by Norvos and Qohor. Soon after Lys and Myr rose up in revolt, and the Andal Kingdom of the Storm also sent an army to Essos, to fight the Volantenes in what would be later known as the Disputed Lands.

About this time too, the Sarnori were broken and the Dothraki overran the Great Grass Sea, known henceforth as the Dothraki Sea. From there, they began to raid Volantis' eastern domains, and disaster struck when the Norvoshi and the Qohori won a great victory at Dagger Lake, and forcing Volantis to abandon most of the Rhoyne.

The last blow came when Aegon Targaryan and his sister-wives, last of the Dragonlords of the Valyrian Freehold, rose up against Volantis. Riding their dragons from their stronghold on Dragonstone, they flew over the Narrow Sea and into Essos, bringing fire and death to Volantis' armies.

"No!" the shout came from the gathered dragonlords, eyes turning in its direction. "Aenar was no traitor! You lying snake, I'll…!"

"Calm yourself, Lord Freeholder Targaryan." Laeraenar said firmly, meeting eyes with the distraught and angry Lord Freeholder. "Certainly, your brother was no traitor. And neither were his descendants: Valyria was long gone by this point. All he did was stand against Volantis' ambitions."

Gasps went up from the Volantenes at the name of the Lord Freeholder, as they realized that one among those present was an ancestor of the royal line of the Seven Kingdoms. Laeraenar and Jaenera stared at each other for a long moment, and then the former nodded. "Retake your seat, Lord Freeholder." He said.

Jaenera bowed and sat back down, while the dragonlords began whispering among themselves. "The question now is, why would…Aegon, was it, Targaryen stand against Volantis?" Laeraenar said while turning back to the Volantenes.

"A good question," Aerarro answered. "Though no direct answer has been ever found. The most likely assumption is that Aegon Targaryen stood against us in order to preemptively eliminate a rival to his own ambitions."

Laeraenar narrowed his eyes. "And those are?" he asked.

"Aegon Targaryan is also known by another name, among the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men of Westeros." Aerarro said. "Aegon the Conqueror, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."

Gasps went up from the dragonlords, while Laeraenar was silent for several moments. And then smiling, he chuckled, and then began to laugh. "Oh, do excuse me, Honored Triarchs." He said after a few moments. "I see, I see, I see…yet another ambitious provincial dragonlord, although in his case given a century had already passed it's much more forgivable that he'd forgotten the principles of the Freehold compared to that arrogant fool, Aurion of Qohor. And there is precedent for a dragonlord to rule as an autocrat over non-Valyrian peoples. As I recall, one of our own was empress-consort to one of Yi-Ti's Yellow Dynasty. And this may be of use to us, the Targaryens of this day and age ruling over the Westerosi…assuming of course, they understand where their loyalties should lie."

The faces of the Volantenes fell, and the Triarchs looked uncomfortable. "You disagree?" Laeraenar asked.

Aerarro took a deep breath, and began to speak of the Targaryen Dynasty. There were seventeen kings and one queen following Aegon the Conqueror belonging to the Targaryen line. There was Aenys called the Weak, son of Aegon the Conqueror and Queen Rhaenys, followed by his half-brother, Maegor called the Cruel. The tales of the Uprising of the Faith Militant had the dragonlords muttering to themselves about religious fanatics, which continued as the tale of the Targaryens turned to Maegor's successor, his nephew and Aenys' son, Jaehaerys called the Wise. He in turned was succeeded by his son, Viserys I, who ruled over the Golden Age of the Seven Kingdoms.

That Golden Age ended in fire and ruin, and the crippling of the Targaryen Dynasty, when the dynastic struggle between Queen Rhaenyra and her half-brother, King Aegon II led to the civil war known as the Dance of Dragons. That war cost the Targaryens most of their healthy and viable dragons, and heralded the eventual fall of the dynasty.

Rhaenyra posthumously emerged the victor however, as it was her son Aegon III who ascended the Iron Throne after Aegon II. The last Targaryen dragons died in his reign however, leading him to be called the Dragonbane.

He would be succeeded by his son, Daeron I, called the Young Dragon, for his conquest of the Principality of Dorne in southern Westeros. Victory was hollow however, for the Dornish refused to submit, and while conquering Dorne cost Daeron ten thousand men, attempting to keep his conquests cost him another fifty thousand. And in the end, he was betrayed, slain by the Dornish under the banner of parley.

With Daeron's death, his brother, Baelor became king. Baelor was a septon however, a priest of the Andal Faith, for which he would called the Blessed. Laeraenar raised an eyebrow at the tale of Baelor's reign, while the dragonlords muttered and Jaenera lowered her face, her cheeks burning with shame at the knowledge one of her brother's descendants was nothing more than a deranged religious fanatic.

On Baelor's death, he was succeeded by his uncle, the only remaining son of Queen Rhaenyra, Viserys II. It was he who pulled the Seven Kingdoms from the rut Baelor had left it in, though he reigned a short reign, and was succeeded by his son Aegon IV, called the Unworthy.

Again, Jaenera's face burned with shame that a fat despot would be counted among her brother's descendants, and one who further weakened the family with his insane decision to legitimize his bastards, sparking the generations-long conflict known as the Blackfyre Rebellions. Aegon's successor though, Daeron II was a respectable man, who brought Dorne under his rule through diplomacy and strategic marriage…even if it meant that the rulers of the Rhoynar exiles were of Targaryen blood. Not that that was an entirely bad thing, for there was a certain amusing irony that those who fled Essos to escape Valyrian domination would ultimately fall under Valyrian – to an extent – rule.

Daeron the Good would be succeeded by mediocre kings, such as Aerys I and Maekar, though Maekar's son Aegon V, called the Unlikely, impressed many dragonlords for his ideals, which in some ways resembled those of the Freehold. Even more impressive was his failed attempt to use sorcery to hatch dragons, with its tragic conclusion at the Summerhall failing to detract from it.

Then came the reign of Jaehaerys II, and then Aerys II, called the Mad. It was there that the Targaryen Dynasty came to the end, thanks to the foolish actions of both the king and his son and heir, Rhaegar, who turned most of the Seven Kingdoms against them. In what was known as the War of the Usurper, both Aerys and Rhaegar were slain, and not unjustly from what the tale told of them.

But when the brutal deaths of the Targaryen children, Rhaenys and Aegon were known, anger rippled through the dragonlords. Fallen from grace they might have been, reduced to pale shadows of the power and grandeur they once possessed, the Targaryens were still one of the forty families. That an ambitious Andal lordling would dare strike against their betters in such a fashion…

"Don't do anything foolish, Lord Freeholder." Laeraenar warned, as Jaenera made to leave. She paused at the amphitheater's doors, and nodding once passed through the doors, the tiger cloaks unwilling to stand in her way, her violet eyes burning with vengeful rage.

"So House Targaryen – or Aenar's line at least – is destroyed." Laeraenar said with a sigh. "What a shame."

"It is not."

"What?"

That was Tychano Bahoran, one of the two elephants that were part of the Triarchy. "House Targaryen isn't destroyed." He said. "The Lord Freeholder aside…Prince Viserys and his sister, Princess Daenerys live still, in exile at the Bastard Daughter."

"Is that so now?" Laeraenar said to himself, a gleam in his eyes. "We'll have to come back to them later, they might be of use to us. In any case, no matter how interesting the supposedly-last of the forty families' achievements are, of more concern to us are the affairs here in Essos, in particular between the so-called Century of Blood and the present day. It is those that will shape our judgment and choices for what must be done."

The Volantenes nodded. "As you say, Honored Triarch." Aerarro said. "Then we shall begin, with our failure to rebuild the Freehold."

Compared to the history of the Targaryen Dynasty, that of Essos in that same period of time was less spectacular, at least after the Century of Blood. There was a reason for that of course, and that was with the failure of Volantis to rebuild the Freehold, a simmering balance of power had emerged between the Free Cities and their neighbors.

There was war of course, bloodshed and ruin in good measure. But compared to events in the west…following the Century of Blood, the Free Cities were largely content to maintain the status quo, and to make money therein.

Volantis had been left a shadow of itself after the Century of Blood, though it recovered, and remained the largest and most-populated of the Free Cities. It retained control of the Rhoyne's mouth, and much of the Rhoyne, up to where its tributary the Selhoru joined the great river.

Much of the lands of Southern Essos on both sides of the lower Rhoyne remained under Volantene control, and Volantis was the center of the slave trade. For all that merchants rather than soldiers ruled Volantis after the Century of Blood, peace was not _the_ rule, however. Skirmishes with the Dothraki continued, though at times they may be bought off with gold or slaves.

For a time after the Century of Blood, Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh had formed an alliance that – mockingly as the Volantenes perceived it – called itself the Triarchy. Second only to Braavos in naval might, the Triarchy had been so powerful at one point that they had been willing to challenge the Targaryens at the height of their power, during the Dance of Dragons when they assailed Queen Rhaenyra in assistance to King Aegon II.

In time however, internal jealousies and rivalries had torn the Triarchy apart, and today its former members are independent of each other. Furthermore, lands they once held jointly against Volantis were now disputed against each other, the three cities maintaining a constant, low boil of conflict over Southwestern Essos, the so-called Disputed Lands. Rather than bloody their populace in those wars, the three cities made use of the so-called Free Companies, mercenary armies which fought for gold and had a reputation for changing sides once a better offer came, something which had the dragonlords muttering on how low the three cities would sink.

Braavos, the Bastard Daughter, while smaller and less-populated than Volantis, has since become the richest and most powerful of the Free Cities. More than that, they were the premier naval power in the known world, with the Sealord of Braavos proudly proclaiming that the Grand Fleet of Braavos was second to none.

Laeraenar smiled coldly at that, but said nothing. The disturbed Volantenes glanced at each other and continued. They spoke of the seven wars between Braavos and Pentos, five of which were won by the former, ending with Pentos becoming a Braavosi subject.

Lorath, Norvos, and Qohor were less spectacular compared to the other Free Cities, though Lorath supported the remaining Sarnori against the Dothraki. When all was said and done though, the three cities preferred to remain quiet and aloof from all the strife and rivalries of the other Free Cities.

Laeraenar nodded slowly as the Volantenes finished. "So such is the state of Western Essos." He said. "You have given us much to consider, Honored Triarchs. And consider we will, before we can decide what to do next. I suggest then, we adjourn for a recess of…one hour?"

The Volantenes looked at each other, and nodded. "A wise suggestion," Triarch Vargano Naerolis, the other elephant on the Triarchy, said. "Let us consider what we now know and face, before making any decisions."

Laeraenar nodded, and standing along with the Volantenes, turned to face the dragonlords. "We will adjourn for one hour to consider matters." He said. "And it is high time for lunch as well. We will reconvene this afternoon, and thence decide on the plans for the future. If there is nothing else, then this session is closed."

* * *

A/N

Signs and portents, how ominous, yes?


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Return of Valyria

Chapter 3

"There is nothing really for us to discuss on what choice to make." Aerarro said as he sat with his fellow Triarchs of Volantis in a private room. "Having already publicly submitted before our Valyrian counterpart, we must forge on, or lose face and have our authority undermined by stepping back. And that's the least that can happen."

"But, even if you say that," Tychano said. "To just surrender three hundred years of independence and become a Valyrian vassal…"

"Not to mention we have only their word as proof of them being Valyria returned…" Vargano muttered halfheartedly.

"Proof?" Aerarro echoed. "Have you looked up at the sky? Did you not kneel with the rest of us before that dragon that may very well dwarf even Aegon the Conqueror's great beast?"

"I know, I know." Vargano said with a sigh. "There's no doubting it, at least not for us here at Volantis, and in the surrounding settlements. Word can spread surprisingly quickly, and they're close enough doubters can come to the city with little difficulty to see the truth for themselves. But…"

"The rest of Essos?" Aerarro asked, and Vargano nodded. "They'll have to learn and accept it soon enough. Otherwise, the Valyrians are going to smash the fact of the matter into their heads."

Tychano snorted. "Such a crude way of saying it, Aerarro." He said before sighing. "But I suppose it does get the point across very cleanly."

"Speaking of which," Aerarro began. "You mentioned our independence earlier, didn't you? If so, then we have nothing to worry about. Even before the Doom, the Freehold allowed us to govern ourselves and our lands without interference. Oh, we had to allow them to move armies and ships over our lands and through our waters, but that was always to the good. And had we need of it, we could and did receive aid from Valyria in times of war and crisis. They did not ask us for levies of men and horses, or for tribute much less tax revenue in gold or in kind, only that we remember who are, and what comes with it: The Eldest Daughter of Valyria. And we are. We always have been. And ever since the Doom, we are the only ones to take pride in who we are, and where our ancestors came from."

Aerarro paused and looked at each of his fellow Triarchs in the eye. "You understand, don't you?" he asked. "We might not look the part, and our politics don't always match, but all of us, our relatives, and our closest associates, they are all of the Old Blood. The blood of Valyria…so how much in the end will really change, should we acknowledge Valyria's hegemony once more?"

There was a profound silence for several moments. It was an undeniable fact, for all that the Triarchs had less Valyrian features than others did. Tychano was black-haired, and both Vargano and Aerarro had dark-brown hair. Only in the eyes did the truth of their heritage show, with their purple irises, and both Aerarro and Vargano knew that Tychano's daughters by his third wife all received Valyrian gold-silver hair from their mother, who was also of the Old Blood.

"I suppose there is a point there." Vargano finally said with a sigh. "But, just as we received help from Valyria, should Valyria have need of us, then we are expected to come to their aid. And from what we know, only the Valyrian homeland was saved from the Doom. The Dothraki still reign unchecked through the Dothraki Sea, and the Ghiscari remain free in the lands to the east of Slaver's Bay. There is also Qarth, and Yi Ti, and…"

"What remains of Valyria is what really matters." Aerarro interrupted. "The capital, and its surrounding cities under the shadow of the Fourteen Flames. There, the collected lore, wisdom, history and knowledge of Valyria are kept and preserved, no more than that, they _live_ there, and from there can grow anew to reach across all Essos once more. It might take longer than our lifetimes, but it _will_ happen. And the dragonlords are all there. Think about it: The Westerosi, and their entire continent's worth of kingdoms and petty lordships, all bent knee before the last remnant of Valyria, with just three dragons. Above us, there are _forty_. One from each of the great dragonlord families. It stands to reason there are more, _far_ more. While they will need boots on the ground to hold conquered territory and make them worth a damn, those dragons, while not ensuring a quick victory and re-conquest of Essos, guarantee it, sooner or later."

Vargano and Tychano shared guarded glances, and Aerarro folded his hands on the table. "Though," he said. "That's just it, isn't it? Valyria will attempt to reconquer Essos and restore the Freehold to its former glory, but given the state of things, that can only be done by force. Not just by dragons, but with men and armies and fleets of ships. In short, a war on a scale not seen since the Century of Blood, and our ancestors' attempt to rebuild the Freehold."

Aerarro paused and narrowed his eyes. "That's what you're really worried about, isn't it?" he asked. "After all, it was in the wake of that devastating conflict that the elephants were born, in opposition to the tigers. And you two are of the elephants."

There was a profound silence. "And your point is?" Tychano snapped. "Those wars were fought for little gain. So many lives lost and ruined, and for what? Power? Wealth? Prestige? All of which could be gained through peaceful trade than through meaningless war."

"Then shall we return to the meeting with the Valyrians, and inform them of our decision not to support their coming campaign?" Aerarro asked.

Again, there was a profound silence, and Aerarro nodded. "No, we will not." He said. "We cannot. Maintaining the status quo, or attempting to do so will not profit our city at the least, and at worst, bring only fire and ruin upon it should the Freehold come to see us as an enemy. We _cannot_ stand against Valyria. The Rhoynar tried, and we all know what happened to them."

"…the Usurper managed to do it in Westeros." Tychano halfheartedly offered.

"Only because the Targaryens of today had lost their dragons." Aerarro countered. "Had they still their dragons, the Usurper and his confederates would have burned…assuming they could have gotten going in the first place to begin with. And Valyria returned has more dragons, and greater, than even the Targaryens at the height of their past glory had. Come to think of it, from what I could hear from the dragonlords earlier, one of the Targaryens of the past is among them…the Usurper's living on borrowed time. And so will we, unless we choose to aid Valyria in achieving their goals."

"In any case," Vargano began with a conciliatory tone. "It's not likely we will come out of this with nothing to show for it. We are the Eldest Daughter of Valyria. We were the first to be founded, and are the biggest and most populous of the Free Cities. And yet we play second fiddle to Braavos, the Bastard Daughter. But we can change that. We side with Valyria, and we can become first among her daughters once more. Set things right, put them the way they _should_ be."

"Playing second fiddle to Valyria?" Tychano asked.

"I can live with that." Aerarro said.

"So can I." Vargano said with a nod. "So can the rest of the Old Blood. And that's all that really matters when it comes to making the decisions for our great city."

Tychano looked unhappy. "At the very least," Vargano said. "Let us hear more of Valyria's plans for the future, and what they would offer us."

"And if they should prove unsatisfactory?" Tychano asked.

Vargano shrugged. "I doubt they would be." He said. "But, cooperation does offer a path to negotiate more gains for our city from the Freehold."

Aerarro nodded in agreement, and looking back and forth between him and Vargano, Tychano sighed and nodded. In any case he was outvoted, and as Aerarro had all but outright said earlier, they didn't really have a choice.

* * *

As expected, the dragonlords present in Volantis returned to the Grand Audience Chamber to resume their discussion. Again, the Triarchs of Volantis sat at a raised table on the ground floor, along with their Valyrian counterpart.

"Honored Triarch," Aerarro began once the meeting had been called to order. "We have had time to consider the implications of this monumental event in the history of the world. And while we understand and accept the expectations upon us, it would be more…reassuring, were we to hear of Valyria's plans for the future."

"An understandable request, Honored Triarch." Laeraenar said with a nod. "Very well, thus far nothing concrete has been set, however before we departed from the homeland, the Assembly had passed a motion establishing a mandate for the Freehold to reestablish Valyrian hegemony and with it, rule of law and time-honored tradition to the lands of Essos."

Laeraenar paused with a smile. "The latter is quite vague," he admitted. "But the former is rather clear, is it not?"

"So they are, Honored Triarch." Aerarro said. "The next question would logically be on how the Freehold intends to do so."

"Again," Laeraenar said. "Nothing is set in stone, though a war plan is being prepared even as we speak to be presented for the Assembly to vote funds for. Given the limitations upon us, our initial goals will have to be limited as well."

"Limitations, Honored Triach?" Vargano asked.

Laeraenar nodded. "Indeed," he said. "As you already know, only the Valyrian Peninsula itself, along with the Lands of the Long Summer to the north, are currently under the Freehold's control. Unfortunately, this means a large portion of our army is gone, and more pressingly, the economy itself has taken a hit with the loss of virtually all our territories to the east, and our subject kingdoms and tributaries to the north."

"Yes, I see." Vargano said with a nod. "That understandably limits what can be done, at least in the short-term. War would require men to fight it, and not just dragons."

"And war consumes men and gold like nothing else." Tychano said.

"Correct, but at times war is necessary." Aerarro said. "Today is one such time."

"Well said, Honored Triarch." Laeraenar said. "Our plans at present call for the greater part of the Freehold's fleet and armies to strike north and east, out of the Lands of the Long Summer, and seizing the coasts of Slaver's Bay, and the islands therein, obtain a stepping stone from which to strike into Ghiscar. That shall be the limit of our advance east, at least for now. Qarth will have to wait for another time, once the Freehold has husbanded and grown her strength further."

"Understandable," Aerarro said. "And smashing the New Ghiscari Empire, along with their tributaries in the Slaver Cities, would strike a resounding historical note, would it not?"

"Indeed," Laeraenar said.

"And to the west?" Tychano said. "How would the Freehold…handle, matters in this region of the world?"

"In that Volantis will play a crucial role." Laeraenar said with a smile. "Of course, we will provide assistance, as per the mutual obligations Volantis and the Freehold have to each other, and Volantis shall receive great reward for its contributions."

"How so?" Vargano asked.

"Volantis and its outlying cities occupy a strategic position, unquestionably controlling the Rhoyne's mouth, and all the Rhoyne as far north as the Selhoru river." Laeraenar said. "This would allow for supplies and reinforcements to be gathered in bulk, and shipped as needed up the river to the expected battlefields to the north, with relative ease."

"…the Freehold intends to seize the Rhoyne, does it not?" Aerarro asked, his eyes alight.

"Indeed," Laeraenar said. "Historically, ever since the Second Spice War all the Rhoyne as far as Dagger Lake was Volantene territory. The Freehold would restore it to Volantis, and in so doing, through a trusted ally indirectly gain control of the quickest, and most reliable route for trade and non-magical communications across Central and Southern Essos."

"And Dagger Lake?" Aerarro asked.

"Dagger Lake was again, historically, directly under the Freehold's rule, if only to provide an objective boundary between Volantis and her younger sisters of Qohor and Norvos." Laeraenar said. "To restore as such would be the Freehold's goal."

"Trade through the Rhoyne is less than it ought to be, however." Tychano said. "The shadow of the Dothraki, the constant, low boil of the fighting in the Disputed Lands, and the pirates infesting Dagger Lake, hang heavy over the Rhoyne."

"That is true," Laeraenar said. "However, even we have not the means to decisively clean out the Dothraki savages infesting the Great Grass Sea. It's much too big, and will take decades if not a few generations of committed effort to clean out, resettle, and stabilize the region to do so. A series of fortifications across the hinterland, as a means of allopathic treatment of the Dothraki disease, will have to suffice for the foreseeable future."

There was a ripple of amusement at that, both among the Valyrians and the Volantenese. "A similar set of fortifications will have to do for the troubles in the Disputed Lands," Laeraenar said. "At least until we can free up enough forces and resources to bring Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr to heel. Lys and Tyrosh in particular, have a debt in blood to pay. Religious hysteria at our apparent destruction or not, the slaying of dragonlords cannot go unpunished. Such would set a bad precedent, and akin to laying seeds for future troubles."

"As you say, Honored Triarch." Aerarro cautiously agreed.

"In any case," Laeraenar said. "Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr should be brought to heel much quicker than the Dothraki, perhaps in two decades at most, but likely sooner than that. Once that's done, while leftovers of the centuries of fighting over the Disputed Lands need to be stamped out first, the problem born of the Disputed Lands existing in the first place would be effectively solved."

There were nods at that. "And the pirates of Dagger Lake?" Vargano asked.

"The easiest to deal with." Laeraenar said. "A thorough sweep of its shores, and sending a fleet into the lake through the Rhoyne, should be enough to burn out the filth. Dragons as well, to strike fear into the wretches."

Again, there were nods and murmurs of agreement among Valyrians and Volantenes both. "And what of Qohor and Norvos?" Tychano asked.

"They would be brought under Valyrian hegemony as well." Laeraenar said. "The Upper and Little Rhoyne have historically been under Norvos, along with Eastern Andalos. That will not change. The same would go for Qohor and its domains along the Qhoyne and the Darkwash. That shall be the extent of our plans for the foreseeable future, in the west and the north. With Norvos and Qohor once more under Valyrian hegemony, the Freehold through its allies will have indirect control of the northern caravan route, from Andalos in the west, through Norvos and Qohor, and thence east to Sarnor, Yi Ti, and beyond."

"The question now is," Vargano said. "If Norvos and Qohor will remember where their loyalties should lie."

"You do not think they will?" Laeraenar asked.

"They were among those who opposed the Freehold's resurrection during the Century of Blood." Vargano said. "And even before then, they were founded by religious dissidents. They are far from the homeland, and compared to Volantis, the distance insulates them and may even encourage them to drift away from how things ought to be."

"That is not necessarily a bad thing," Laeraenar said. "But I do see your point. However, if that is the case, then Norvos and Qohor must be brought to heel…but only _after_ the Rhoyne is once more under Volantene governance."

The Triarchs of Volantis looked at each other. Vargano nodded slowly, and Aerarro did so with more spirit. Finally, Tychano nodded, even more slowly than Vargano. They turned back to Laeraenar.

"We find the Freehold's plans, if still under development, to be without criticism, at least as far as generalities go." Vargano said. "Speaking on behalf of my fellows, Volantis _will_ participate as needed to reestablish Valyrian hegemony over Essos."

Laeraenar nodded. "That is most gratifying to hear, Honored Triarch." He said. "I will inform my fellow Triarchs and the Assembly at the earliest possible opportunity."

"We mustn't be careless, however." Aerarro warned. "Braavos will not stand idly by, and neither will Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr. Pentos has no choice but to follow Braavos' lead, though it may be possible for Lorath to stay neutral. Indeed, should Norvos and Qohor be brought to heel, then Lorath may swing our way following some effort with diplomacy."

"Thus gaining us a foothold on the Shivering Sea, and a sea route to Sarnor." Laeraenar said with a nod. "But that is still far in the future."

"Yes, of course." Aerarro said. "And finally, there is the Usurper in the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Their significant naval strength aside, barring the Freehold's legions Westerosi armies are the best in the known world. It would be troublesome if they managed to land an army or two here on Essos, to oppose us."

"Would they now?" Laeraenar asked.

"The Usurper's ancestor," Aerarro said. "One of the Storm Kings, sent an army to oppose us during the Century of Blood. He might be inclined to do the same, given how much he despises our people, or at least the Targaryens, calling them 'dragonspawn'."

Laeraenar blinked, and then burst out laughing. The Volantenes could only watch as the other dragonlords laughed uproariously. "Lord Freeholder Targaryen," one dragonlord asked after a few moments, and wiping at his eyes. "What say you to that?"

"Dragonspawn?" Jaenera echoed with a grin. "Truly? How utterly _unimaginative_. The Ghiscari were calling us that for thousands of years, the Andals of Andalos called us that for nearly as long, and the Rhoynar called us that over a thousand years ago. But what can we expect? _Andals_ …"

Jaenera trailed off with a roll of her eyes, more laughter breaking out among the dragonlords as a result.

One of the dragonlords sitting at the front, and thus of the top ten of the dragonlord families rose to his feet. "Dragonlord Jacaeron Goninarys is acknowledged." Laeraenar said.

"So what if the Andal King sends an army to oppose us?" Jacaeron asked. "If that is the case, then we will simply crush them, along with their misguided allies, and then advancing forward bring Valyria's wayward daughters to heel. It might take time, years, possibly decades, but our victory is inevitable. There is no reason to fear. Furthermore, should the Andal King or his heirs dare to continue to defy us, then it is but a short distance across the Narrow Sea, to their capital at King's Landing. A few dragons ought to remind them that their victory over their betters was only a matter of circumstance, of Aenar Targaryen's line losing their dragons. Let _them_ know fear. Let them know what it means to challenge the Dragonlords of Valyria, and the greatest nation in the known world!"

Applause erupted from across the dragonlords, and with a bow, Jacaeron sat back down. "Yes, that is certainly true." Laeraenar said with a slow nod. "If need be, examples can always be made to remind the Andals of the need to know and stay in their places."

"And if they should not remain in their places?" Tychano softly asked.

Laeraenar's violet eyes glittered, and despite themselves the Triarchs of Volantis shuddered from an inexplicable feeling of terror. "Then," the Valyrian Triarch said menacingly. "The Andals will just have to be _made_ to stay in their places."

* * *

As the meeting came to a close, the dragonlords were shown to where manses across Old Volantis had been prepared for their use. The Old Blood of Volantis was divided into many houses and families, and of those, many owned multiple residences, and while kept in good repair, not all were in use. And those that were not had been quickly refurbished and provided for the dragonlords' use, in exchange for a measure of prestige that would allow the owners of said manses to claim in the future that they had hosted a dragonlord or more in the past.

Jaenera's manse was surprisingly large, a rectangular, two-floor affair with a pair of wings extending sideways from the middle of the main building. A high outer wall surrounded the outer grounds, which featured fresh, clean flowing water, cleanly-kept grass, and neat lines of flowering bushes. The path leading to the manse from the gate had a fountain in the center, decorated by a sculpture of a woman who had a fish's tail in the place of legs.

" _What is that?_ " Jaenera thought with revulsion as she passed it by. " _Some kind of beast from the flesh pits of Gogossos? Flames of the Fourteen, what have those madmen been up to in the past four hundred years without Valyria's firm hand keeping them in check?_ "

Entering the manse, the dragonlord was greeted by several slaves, and a freedman working as their overseer. "Welcome, my lady." The overseer said. "And I must say it is an honor to meet one of the dragonlords of Valyria."

"Indeed," Jaenera said, unfastening her red cloak and handing it to a slave. The slave took it with a bow, and Jaenera advanced further into the manse, the overseer following behind her. "Does the manse have an armory?"

"Yes, but it is for the guards' use." The overseer replied. "We have prepared an armor stand and racks for your weapons in an adjoining room within your quarters, my lady."

"I see. Most thoughtful…my thanks."

"I am honored by your praise, my lady."

Jaenera made a noncommittal grunt. "And where would my quarters be?" she asked.

"I would be honored if you would follow my lead, my lady." The overseer said.

"Very well."

The man led Jaenera to her quarters, which were lavishly if impersonally furnished, and included a pair of slaves waiting to attend to her. Shown to the personal armory, Jaenera placed her sword and daggers on waiting racks, and unclipping her helmet placed it on top of the armor stand. Her enameled vambraces followed, placed on the same rack, along with her hauberk followed by her greeves.

The jacket of padded leather she wore under her armor was hung on a hook nearby, and left in a common but serviceable shirt and trousers of linen, Jaenera made to leave. "Shall this one guide this one's lady to her bath, or would this one's lady wish to dine first?" a slave asked.

"…a bath first." Jaenera said. "But before even that, I'd like to see the collection of clothes my hosts prepared for me."

"As this one's lady commands."

Guided to her bedroom, Jaenera was shown to an impressively-stocked walk-in closet, though the overelaborate and even _gaudy_ dresses and gowns therein were something of a disappointment. Thankfully, there were a few, simpler if still fine clothes inside, so it wasn't a complete failure in the end.

Placing the selected clothes in the arms of a slave, the collared woman bowed. "This one's lady has made a most fine selection." She said. "Would this one's lady wish for this one to guide this one's lady to her bath?"

"Yes."

"This one is honored."

* * *

A warm and gently-fragrant bath later and Jaenera emerged refreshed and in clean clothes. A sleeveless dress of white silk that hung down to her ankles was worn over linen undergarments, followed a plain tunic of white linen with long sleeves and again reaching down to her ankles. A sash of red silk was belted at the waist, and tying back her gold-silver hair with a silken band, Jaenera had a slave to guide her to her evening meal.

"Lord Ormonnis apologizes for not being able to attend to you this evening, my lady." The overseer said with a deep bow. "He asks for your indulgence, with only the excuse that your arrival on short notice has barely given him time to properly honor your arrival. He does hope, however, that he would be able to attend to you more properly tomorrow morning?"

"I would be honored if my host would be able to join me for breakfast tomorrow." Jaenera said politely. "And it is of no concern. To have this fine manse put at my disposal…Lord Ormonnis is most generous. I am most grateful, and would even be more so if you could pass on my thanks."

"I would be honored to do so, my lady."

"By the way," Jaenera said. "Would it be possible to know of Lord Ormonnis' full name?"

"Of course, my lady." The overseer said with another bow. "His lordship has the honor of bearing the name of Thoreo Ormonnis, of the line of General Brachyros Iranohr."

"I see…a general…I would like to see some reference materials on the history of my host's family, after I finish my meal."

"Of course my lady, it will be done."

Jaenera nodded, and with another bow the overseer left. Turning back to her meal, Jaenera held back a sigh at the overwhelming repast offered to her tonight. A pile of roasted pork chops rested on a silver platter, along with a rich, cheese-based soup of onions, peas, and carrots, resting in a deep bowl of fired porcelain from Yi Ti. There was plenty of bread, freshly baked from an oven, and a wide selection of wines.

Too rich a fare for her, at least since her brother left for Dragonstone twelve years ago by her reckoning, though given how the world had changed, that was actually four hundred years ago now. Since then, she'd subsisted on simpler fare, or at least with smaller servings than tonight.

Selecting two wines, one red and one white, Jaenera instructed for them to be watered down to prevent her from getting drunk too quickly, and taking a loaf of bread broke it before tearing off a piece to start her dinner with. " _Volantis is ours, as it should be._ " She thought as she mixed olive oil and vinegar in a small saucer, her mind wandering back to the meeting earlier. " _But it's less than it should be. And the other Free Cities just might get in our way. What a pain…then again, I'm a soldier, so I shouldn't complain. Fighting is what I'm paid to do, after all._ "

On that thought, Jaenera poked her bread into the oil and vinegar mixture, and placing it into her mouth began to chew.

* * *

A/N

'Dragonspawn' is such a blasé insult, considering how long Valyria's been around (~5000 years). I doubt they, or the dragonlords, have not been called that by their many enemies over the millennia. So sadly – well, not really – Robert's favorite insult is just a tired, old joke for the dragonlords, and only makes him and his fellow Andals look like a comedy in Valyrian eyes.


	5. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Return of Valyria

Chapter 4

As it was, it took about a month for Volantis to finish its preparations for war to reclaim its ancestral holdings. Given their primacy on the Rhoyne Front, with the Freehold providing assistance and support to their Volantene allies in that theater of the war, the Freehold similarly held off on offensive operations in this region. For the most part: dragonriders and horsemen probed north, up the valley of the Rhoyne, and west, into the Disputed Lands. Spies and informants gathered as much information as they could, and in the small, faint hope that order could be restored to Essos without unnecessary bloodshed, messages had been sent to the other Free Cities, proclaiming the return of the Valyrian Freehold, and calling on them all to peacefully submit to Valyrian hegemony once more, and for a peaceful arbitration of the issues that had divided and turned the Free Cities against each other.

The hope was in vain. Most of the Free Cities derided Volantis' claims – as they saw it – of Valyria's return as propaganda, a façade for a second attempt by Volantis to gain hegemony over Essos as it once attempted to do over three hundred years ago.

Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr immediately cut off all trade with Volantis, with any and all shipping flying their cities' flags heading east and west through the Summer Sea being instructed to avoid Volantis. Warnings were also sent to Volantis, threatening the destruction of their fleet and a blockade of the city should Volantis attempt to force the issue.

These warnings and the embargo were backed by Braavos, which even blamed Volantene agents for starting the civil wars tearing apart Norvos and Qohor. Braavosi money poured into anti-Volantene factions in the civil wars, with Braavosi delegates serving as impartial arbitrators to allow those same factions to form unified coalitions to restore order to their cities, and provide steadfast leadership aimed at maintaining their domains' independence from what they and Braavos condemned as Volantene tyranny.

Pentos was silent: as a Braavosi client, they simply decided to follow their hegemon's lead in all things.

Lorath for its part declared neutrality, citing the distance between itself and Volantis, and its own limited resources compared to the other Free Cities. For the time being, such was accepted with no question by the belligerents of the war that would soon set Essos ablaze.

"This is intolerable." Tychano snapped as he sat with his fellow Triarchs. "The embargo imposed by all five western Free Cities is costing us millions per day, to say nothing of northern trade drying up thanks to the civil wars in Qohor and Norvos. And while Lorath is willing to continue trading with us…considering the distance and Lorath's own status as the smallest of the Daughters of Valyria, it's not worth much at all."

"You exaggerate the situation, my friend." Vargano said. "Yes, we lose millions due to the embargo, but much of that is steadily being rectified as trade with the Freehold grows. Indeed, as trade with the west dries up, trade with the Freehold increases, as merchants unable to make money in the west turn east, to Mother Valyria. And we have much to offer to her merchants, and her own merchants to us."

"And once the war really begins," Aerarro said. "The need to ship supplies and men up the Rhoyne will provide a non-insignificant source of income for us as well. And it's not like Ghiscar and Qarth have stopped trading with us, and the same goes for Yi Ti and Asshai."

"So you say," Tychano conceded. "But you mentioned Ghiscar, did you not? Are not Valyrian armies marching on Meereen even as we speak? As the fighting escalates there, trade with the east will begin to dry up as well."

"What?" Aerarro asked. "Once Ghiscar falls, then the Freehold will have plenty of land and property, to say nothing of slaves, that will need to be rebuilt and put to productive work. I'm sure there will be plenty of opportunities for our eastern trade then, and much easier for us to do business in than is currently the case with New Ghis."

Tychano was silent at that, and Vargano nodded slowly. "In any case," he began. "The Freehold has no intentions within the foreseeable future to go against Qarth or Asshai, so trade with those lands should not be affected."

"And following up on what I said just now," Aerarro said. "As we advance north, up the Rhoyne, there will also be plenty of land for us to put to good use. The building of fortifications in the hinterland will also present opportunities for considerable profit. And once both Norvos and Qohor are brought to heel, together with our control of the Rhoyne…"

"Then the embargos will essentially become meaningless." Vargano said before narrowing his eyes. "And in any case, it's not as though the western cities aren't hurting their own economies with this embargo of theirs. And they have less options than we do. For instance, once the Freehold has once again regained Ghiscar, then _we_ and the Freehold can embargo the west. Let's see how long they can hold out then, without access to most of the eastern and the entire Rhoyne markets."

Aerarro nodded in approval, while Tychano looked unhappy, though he remained silent. "Any word from Westeros?" Vargano asked after a moment.

"None," Aerarro said. "Or at least they don't seem to be reacting actively or openly in response to our and the Freehold's proclamations of the latter's return. No doubt though, their spies are already hard at work trying to find out as much as they can. Sooner or later, there _will_ be a reaction."

Vargano made a sound indicative of interest. "And how do you think the Usurper would react?" he asked.

Aerarro shrugged. "Who knows?" he said. "It all depends I guess, on whether or not and how far his hatred of the Targaryens extends to other Valyrians, or to other dragonlords in particular. And whether or not cooler heads among his confederates can restrain him from rash action. That deputy of his, Arryn if I remember correctly, he's a sharp and composed one from what I know."

Vargano nodded. "True," he admitted. "I suppose we will find out soon enough."

"Indeed."

* * *

Saying the Valyrian Army was marching on Meereen and the rest of the Slaver Cities would be true…generally-speaking. Details-wise, the Valyrian Army was busy taking control of the northern coast of Slavers' Bay, dotted as it was with a number of villages and small towns. At the same time, fortifications were being built inland, stout keeps of stone boasting a tall signal tower, surrounded by a curtain wall sporting battlements and towers.

In addition to Slavers' Bay's northern coast, the passes over the Painted Mountains were being fortified, with the Freehold planning to assign a full legion and an equivalent number of auxiliaries to hold the passes. All in all, they would number approximately ten thousand men, and while normally at a disadvantage against the expected enemy – the Dothraki – on the open, in the rugged terrain of the mountains and supported by dragons, they would be enough.

Currently, the First Cohort of the Fifteenth Legion, titled the 'Pyramid Breakers' for their achievements during the Fifth Ghiscari-Valyrian War over four thousand years ago, was preparing to camp for the night outside and around a small coastal town which had surrendered earlier during the afternoon. By order of Triarch Laemar Lennareon, the settlements of Slavers' Bay would be offered a choice: surrender, and their lives, freedom, and property would be spared and guaranteed under Valyrian law. They would pay taxes to the Freehold, and follow its laws, and in return the Freehold would provide protection and other public services.

Refuse to submit, and their freedom, property, and if need be, their lives, would be forfeit. A number of settlements had foolishly chosen this option, and were now naught by burned ruins. Their militiamen or sellswords slain, their properties divided by lot among the soldiers and officers which had taken their settlement…

...but as for the inhabitants themselves…the men would likely end up being put to work in mines, factories, or plantations for the rest of their lives, though the stronger, and more fit among them might get a chance at freedom by fighting in the gladiatorial arenas. The older women would likely be sold off as house servants, the younger ones to brothels or to rich men with a taste for bed slaves, and the children to serve as companions to other children, and who actually had a very good chance at eventually regaining their freedom: it was customary for a young man or woman of good social standing to free their companions upon reaching adulthood.

Going back to the First Cohort of the Fifteenth Legion, Legion Commander Galaerys was standing in his tent, looking over a map of the surrounding area spread over a large table. Colored markers indicated the locations of the other cohorts of the Fifteenth Legion, along with their auxiliaries. Other markers showed the locations of the Fifth Legion and their auxiliaries, and who were in fact taking point for the expedition.

Within a month…

…no, less than that, assuming the Ghiscari weren't _completely_ incompetent, the Meereenese would respond, and likely probe the Valyrian vanguard as it approached the Skahazadhan river. And when that happened…

Movement drew the Valyrian officer's attention, First Captain Gaemar saluting just past the tent entrance. "Commander," the man said as Galaerys returned the salute. "Reporting that fortification of the camp is complete, and our men are settling down for the night."

"Very good, captain." Galaerys said with a nod, before indicating the map in front of him. "Take a look at this."

"Sir?" the man said as he stepped closer, and Galaerys began to indicate dots on the map where the Valyrian Army was building forts and other fortifications across the hinterland.

"We're digging in across the entire hinterland," Galaerys said. "While at the same time we're advancing towards Meereen. Put another way, our troops are spread thin across the entire region. If we're not careful, any enemy that manages to get past or around the frontline will wreak havoc on our rear echelons."

"Yes, sir." Gaemar agreed. "At least until the fortification of the hinterland is complete."

"Perhaps," Galaerys mused. "Against an enemy that fights properly, like the Ghiscari, they would be enough. Maybe enough that there'd be no need for dragonriders like what's going to be stationed here…here…and here. Against enemies that don't fight properly though…"

"Dothraki and rebels…" Gaemar muttered, and Galaerys nodded.

"Quite," Galaerys said. "It'll be quite the hunt on the ground for us, and if our men aren't careful, they could just be led into a trap. Dragonriders would be very helpful in such a case…once the fortification of the hinterland is done, at least."

"Yes sir, as you say."

Galaerys nodded. "We're getting close to Meereen." He said. "We could encounter the enemy at any time. I want double lookouts at night, and double scouts while on the march."

"It will put a strain on our supply train." Gaemar warned. "I'll have to arrange things with the quartermasters to keep things going smoothly."

"Do so." Galaerys said. "A little difficulty for us now is preferable to big trouble later on."

"Yes, sir. It will be done." Gaemar said with a nod.

"Also," Galaerys said before the first captain could leave. "I'll need a messenger ready by first light."

"To where or who, sir?"

"To Legion Commander Vamar of the Fifth Legion, of course." Galaerys said with a sigh. "We need to tighten our lines. As things stand, our forces aren't just spread too thin, we can barely support each other…if at all."

"I understand, sir. The messenger will be ready at first light, as ordered."

Galaerys nodded, and with a salute, the first captain departed, and left the legion commander alone to his worries.

* * *

The fleet assigned by the Valyrian Navy to cover and support the Valyrian Army's march along the northern coast of Slavers' Bay was anchored offshore along a sheltered stretch of coastline. Numbering some two hundred ships strong, it was composed largely of two-mast galleys with thirty oars on either side and three men for every oar, on top of the ship's officers and additional men for actual combat, whether boarding or missile and artillery crews with composite bows and traction trebuchets. Unlike the ships sent to Volantis in the previous month, these ships didn't carry ballistae, which were in fact in the middle of being phased out by the Valyrian military as a whole, considered to be too cost-inefficient compared to simpler but more effective weapons such as traction or counterweight trebuchets.

In addition to war galleys, there were also dromons, two-banked and two-mast affairs with sixty oars per side, and in addition to traction trebuchets and archers, carried the deadliest weapon in use in naval warfare. And which according to information provided by Volantis had been lost if not outright forgotten in the four centuries since. If so, then it would be a most unpleasant surprise for the Freehold's enemies when the time came.

Fires burned on great braziers on the decks of the ships on the outside of the fleet's formation at nighttime rest, their crews using large disks of polished bronze to reflect the light out to sea, and in so doing be able to see potential enemies on approach. On the dromon _Eternal Star_ , Admiral Vigarys was poring over two maps of Slavers' Bay.

One was from four hundred years ago, and another was of the present day, provided courtesy of Volantis. "We should be thankful Elyria remains as it should be," the admiral said. "That is, it's _our_ Elyria, and not some Ghiscari bastardization."

"As you say, sir." Captain Vagar said.

"In any case," Vigarys continued. "Any word from Valyx just yet?"

"There has been some delay," Vagar began with an air of apology. "However, Admiral Valyx will be setting sail in two days for the Isle of Cedars, while the Grand Fleet under Grand Admiral Rhaegar will be setting out as well, to cover Admiral Valyx's right flank in the eventuality that New Ghis launches its fleet to oppose the latter's sortie."

"…I see." Vigarys said with a slow now. "And the nature of the delay?"

"The sorcerers apparently needed more time to prepare."

"Sorcerers? Whatever for?"

"According to the report from Admiral Valyx, the scouts sent to the Isle of Cedars reported back that something… _wasn't_ right, about the island." Vagar said. "As such, Triarch Laemar has decided to take prudent measures, and attached sorcerers to Admiral Valyx's command for this sortie."

"Glass candles need slaves to work." Vigarys muttered. "Or rather their blood…lots of it, if there's something off with the whole island. Still, I see the Triarch's point, and while I don't like it, it does seem to be the right course of action."

"Yes, sir."

"Of course," Vigarys began while looking down at his maps again. "This will delay our own plans yet again, forcing us to continue to hug the coast until Valyx can close the whole bay off. And until then, we can't strike and take Yaros, much less have the positioning we need to completely blockade Yunkai and Astapor. What a pain."

"Unfortunately that does seem to be the case, sir."

Vigarys sighed. "In any case," he said, marking down notes on the maps and on a clean leaf of papyrus. "Such is war. Even the best plans don't always go smoothly. That's just the way things are."

"Sir."

Vigarys nodded. "Well, thank you for that report, captain." He said. "Dismissed."

"Yes, sir."

The captain saluted, and then leaving the admiral's cabin, left the man alone to his work.

* * *

As Legion Commander Galaerys predicted, Meereen took action before too long. Barely a week after the former had sent to the Fifth Legion's commander of the need to contract and tighten the Freehold's lines, outriders of the Fifth Legion brought back word that an army of ten thousand had crossed the Skahazadhan river and were marching west, to challenge the Valyrian Army to battle.

Legion Commander Vamar immediately recalled his cohorts and auxiliaries, consolidating his forces into a matching force to that of the enemy. Approximately two days' march west of the Skahazadhan, the Valyrians and the Meereenese faced each other across the battlefield.

The Valyrians and the Meereenese were in stark contrast to each other. The Valyrians were a uniform force, flying the same banners and holding the same standards: red banners with golden dragons, or crimson standards bearing in gold the numerical glyph for the number five, the latter topped with gilded figures of a hand raised in defiance beneath a dragon similarly snarling in defiance.

The Meereenese forces flew an eclectic mix of banners and standards, and indeed, their forces appeared hodgepodge and ramshackle, lacking standardization between them. It was most…surprising, as Meereen was supposed to be a tributary of the New Ghiscari Empire, just as it once was to Old Ghis. Had the Ghiscari somehow forgotten how to raise and maintain lockstep legions?

If so, then there was a brutal and delightful irony there. For slavery was not the only thing which Valyria had learned from and adapted during its wars with Old Ghis, for indeed, the legions of the Valyrian Army had been modeled on and trained to fight against the lockstep legions of Old Ghis.

For New Ghis to have forgotten their ancestors' admittedly-impressive ability to wage war where Valyria had not and indeed, had adapted it for its own…

Horns sounded and a white banner was raised among the Meereenese lines. "They signal for a parley, commander." First Captain Jaeron remarked.

"So it seems." Legion Commander Vamar said with a nod. "Let's humor them, shall we? Sound a response, and get a white banner up."

"Yes, sir."

The Valyrians sounded their own horns and raised their own white banners, and in minutes two parties from opposing sides were riding to meet each other between their armies. "Greetings," Vamar said in Volantene as he came within earshot. "I am Legion Commander Vamar of the Fifth Legion. What brings you so far west?"

"Hello to you too, legion commander." The opposing commander returned the greeting. "I am Captain-Commander Joror Aenoyor of the Horde of Blood and Iron. As to your question, it's rather obvious, isn't it?"

"It is?" Vamar asked.

"My employers over at the city yonder aren't exactly too enthusiastic about you marching on their lands." Joror answered.

"Employers, you say?" Vamar asked. "I take it you're not a citizen-soldier or anything of the sort of Meereen or the Ghiscari, are you?"

Joror laughed. "No, commander, I am not." He said. "Just your usual free company leader. That said, I'd also say you make for a very…unusual-looking, leader for a free company. And your men are rather too disciplined and uniform for it too…"

"You assume much, sellsword." Vamar said coldly, unamused at being seen as a sellsword himself.

"Not really," Joror said with a shrug. "But the Great Masters do."

Vamar raised an eyebrow at the contemptuous tone Joror used to refer to Meereen's aristocratic rulers. It didn't go unnoticed. "That bunch sitting in their pyramids sipping bad wine and fattening themselves on sweetmeats are too far up their own asses to be able to see more than what's on the surface." Joror said. "Me and mine, though? We see and hear a lot of things."

"Such as?"

"They say the Doom is gone." Joror said with a smile. "That Valyria has returned from the grave, that dragons fly once again over Essos, and that Volantis is about to go to war to rebuild the Freehold again."

Vamar smiled cryptically. "And what of it?" he asked.

Joror looked at his captains. They nodded at him. "I'd say a lot of it is bull." He said. "Except the bit about Volantis, that is. What's dead is dead after all, and nothing ever comes back from over that line. Least of all Valyria, which dug too deep and cracked hell's roof and ended getting burned for it. I don't know how you Volantenes managed to raise an army as big as you have behind you, much less send it all the way here without getting noticed, but hey, I'm just a sellsword. It doesn't matter to me."

"Hmm…and what would?"

"Well," Joror began. "We could fight it out, like my employers would prefer, and me and mine would chase you lot off back to your ships – wherever they are – after which you lot can go fuck off back to Volantis. Or…we can come to an arrangement."

"An arrangement, you say?"

"Come now," Joror said with a grasping gesture. "You know how this works, Volantene. The Great Masters paid us to chase you off and keep you bunch from their city…but if you can give us a better offer, then we can all take our fair share of Meereen. What do you say?"

Vamar's face twisted in disgust. " _Greedy and dishonorable scum,_ " he spat in High Valyrian. " _A sellsword you might be, but I'd have hoped for a little bit of honor, professional pride in keeping to your given word as set down in your contract! And you would tell me that for a little more gold your word and signature are worth as much as the paper it's on? And that I would bargain with the likes of you?_ "

"Commander," the sergeant major said cautiously. "You're speaking in High Valyrian. I don't think these lowlifes can understand it."

The sellswords bristled at that. "Watch your tongue, little man." One sellsword captain said. "Or we'll cut it out for you."

The sergeant major reached for his sword, but was stopped by a hand on his arm, courtesy of the legion commander. "We are at parley." Vamar said. "We will not draw weapons."

"Yes, sir." The man said, relaxing and pulling his hand back. "My apologies."

Vamar nodded, and then turned back to the sellswords with a cold expression on his face. "Here is my offer." He said just as coldly. "Either you surrender here and now, at which point you'll be interned until after we finish our campaign in this theater, or you can stand and fight. Here and now, or retreat to Meereen and fight there when the time comes, it doesn't matter. Know that if you fight though, only death, or a slave's chains await you, sellsword."

Joror and his captains' faces turned ugly. "Big words, Volantene…" one of the latter began, only to be interrupted.

"Wrong!" Vamar snarled. "I am no Volantene. I speak their language for your sake, but I am _Valyrian_. So are all my men, and my superiors. Submit before the Freehold here and now, and receive mercy later. Defy us, and suffer for it. Choose, sellsword!"

The sellswords laughed mockingly before turning to leave. "It takes more than dragon banners and strong words to revive the Freehold, Volantene." Joror said mockingly. "Or should I say 'Valyrian'? No matter…you should have remembered the Century of Blood, Valyrian. Don't worry: we'll remind you of how it ended in a way you'll never forget."

Vamar sneered as the sellswords rode away, and then turning back rode towards his army. "What should we do, commander?" the first captain asked, riding out to meet the legion commander.

"Keep the foot auxiliaries to the rear," Vamar ordered. "When the opportunity comes, have them attack the enemy foot's flanks."

"And our cavalry?"

Vamar turned to look at the sellswords in the distance, shouting and roaring out war cries and taunts. "We'll put them in reserve," he said. "Until our enemy makes a move with their cavalry."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

For hours, the two armies stared each other down, enduring the scorching heat of the Sun in the dry lands around Slavers' Bay. The Valyrians stood in stoic silence, save for the barked orders and shouted encouragement of their officers. In contrast, the sellswords grew increasingly agitated as the hours passed, shouting taunts and insults at the Valyrians to try and get them to make the first move, and present opportunities, mistakes, and weaknesses to exploit…to no avail. Superior Valyrian discipline kept their troops, no matter how insulted, from acting without orders.

As noon came however, the endurance of both sides reached the breaking point, and by unspoken agreement both armies withdrew to their camps, for water and a chance to get out from under the scorching Sun. Within hours however, as the temperature dropped, and the Sun began to sink towards the horizon, both armies marched out to confront each other again.

Again, the Valyrians stood silent and stoic for the most part, while the sellswords chomped at their bits, eager to spill blood and the chance to loot and spoil their fallen enemies in death. Ultimately, it was the sellswords who gave way first, their captains fearing their men turning on them if they refused to give battle now, and dispatched their cavalry to try and flank the Valyrian Army.

"Deploy our cavalry." Vamar said. "Keep them from flanking us, but do not charge until the enemy does."

"And if they do?" the sergeant major asked.

"Rout them."

"By the Fourteen, it will be done."

Soon, almost a thousand horsemen were moving away and around the Valyrian foot, running past at a medium trot and keeping pace with the sellsword cavalry. The sellswords attempted to draw the Valyrians off and outflank them, but despite their best efforts, were unable to shake or outflank the Valyrian cavalry.

Annoyed, the sellswords' cavalry commander decided to charge and break the Valyrian cavalry. Orders were given and the formation shifted from a marching column to a wedge aimed at the Valyrians, and with the roaring of horns, the sellswords charged.

The Valyrians picked up the pace, speeding up to a fast trot, but maintaining a broad line facing the sellswords. The wan light of the afternoon Sun shone off mail hauberks that reached to the riders' wrists and knees, and off the bronze scales which armored their horses. Purple eyes looked through narrow slits cut through enclosing helms, and then raising bows made from wood, bone, and sinew, the Valyrians fired disciplined, mass volleys of steel-tipped arrows against the sellswords in a demonstration of skill in mounted archery rarely seen outside of the Dothraki _khalasars_. And then the front rank peeled off, turning to the flanks to allow the next rank to bring their bows and arrows to bear, and then peeling off, repeated for the next line.

A difference quickly became apparent, however. Valyrian mounted archers fired at a slower pace compared to the Dothraki, but did so by pulling their bowstrings further back, adding more power to their shots, allowing them greater chances to punch through mail and even padded leather. And against the sellswords' unarmored horses, where the fast-paced volleys of arrows launched by Dothraki would only cause painful but otherwise non-serious cuts and punctures, the Valyrians' more powerful volleys could incapacitate or even kill. Even more so, as the Valyrians took the time to properly aim before firing.

The sellswords' charge buckled and then melted, struggling to stay together even as the Valyrian formation shifted from a line to a wedge, the last rank of mounted archers peeling away as lancers lowered their lances. War horns sounded the charge, and the Valyrians kicked their horses to full gallop.

To their credit, the sellswords managed to partially reform their ranks quickly enough once the arrows stopped falling, but with their charge broken and no time to pick up speed once more, they found themselves at a major disadvantage. No less than two ranks were crushed by the Valyrian charge, with the third buckling in many places.

By then the Valyrians' first rank was drawing swords and maces, while those behind them joined in with weapons already drawn, turning the battlefield into a bloody melee that was a fairer fight, though Valyrian mounted archers continued to launch wave after wave of arrows into the sellswords' ranks. And once their arrows ran out, they too drew their weapons and charged in to join the melee.

Elsewhere Valyrian foot was closing in on the sellsword foot, the Valyrians presenting a wall of pikes before the enemy while archers of both sides rained arrows down on their enemies. The sellswords wavered but held, marching forward to close the range, crossbowmen advancing to open fire. Steel bolts punched through Valyrian shields, mail, and padded leather with terrifying ease, and the sellswords alternated their crossbowmen in three ranks. The first rank fired, then stepped back to reload, while the second rank advanced to fire and then stepped back to reload, while the third rank fired and then stepped back to reload while the first rank advanced once more to fight.

Rinse and repeat…before long, the Valyrian wall of pikes had collapsed, and with a roaring of horns both sides charged. Clashing head to head, the Valyrians quickly and surprisingly - for the sellswords - gained a minor advantage, their legionaries' superior discipline allowing them to maintain the line even in the heat of battle, and preventing them from being pushed back. But the sellswords fought with impressive fury, and the Valyrian commander ordered his reserves pushed into battle.

Foot auxiliaries advanced from the Valyrian rear to either side, raining down arrows as they closed on the sellswords' flanks. The sellswords' formation buckled but held, prolonging the melee for nearly three hours…

…and may have held for longer had the Valyrian cavalry not finally routed their enemies. Captain-Commander Joror sounded the retreat, the sellsword cavalry retreating as best it could to the east. They left behind nearly six hundred of their own dead including the rearguard, with nearly two hundred more escaping in the direction of Meereen.

Despite their exhaustion after having fought a hard battle already, the Valyrian cavalry reformed, and charged the sellsword foot from the rear. Surrounded on all sides and with no chance to retreat or escape, the sellswords held out for as long as they could.

But as the Sun began to dip beneath the horizon, the survivors surrendered. Out of just over nine thousand sellsword infantry, over four thousand were dead, and nearly five thousand were marched disarmed and in chains, to the slavers waiting behind Valyrian lines.

The Valyrian Army's Fifth Legion, along with its attached auxiliaries, would lose some five hundred men out of nearly a thousand horsemen, along with nearly two thousand out of over nine thousand footmen.

Despite such losses however, victory for this battle clearly belonged to the Freehold. And the road to Meereen was now open.

* * *

A/N

What, did you expect Valyria to depend solely on dragons? Just like Rome, the Valyrians adopted and adapted for their own use/preferences those aspects of their enemies which they found useful. Slavery for instance, and the lockstep legions for another, from the Ghiscari.


	6. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Return of Valyria

Chapter 5

The initial Volantene advance north up the Rhoyne beyond the Selhoru quickly turned disastrous.

Barely a month into the advance, at the ruined Rhoynar city of Chroyane, Captain Vargelos Ostohrin and the five thousand men he commanded were surrounded and forced to surrender, to fifteen thousand sellswords paid by Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr. The captain was crucified and burned, his body left to rot amidst the ruins even as his men were marched by slavers west, into the Disputed Lands.

Similarly, a week later and Captain Irreo Vynonnis suffered a similar fate, again after being surrounded and forced to surrender. By this point the Volantenes had lost around ten thousand men, with only Captain Malaro Pahraan and five thousand men standing between the forces hired by Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr, and the Volantene city of Selhorys.

Rather than attempting to engage the enemy head on, Malaro sent fast riders south for help, while retreating to a fort located approximately twenty miles north of Selhorys. The enemy commander, Captain Beloquo Maegelar predicted Malaro's movements, and moved to intercept before they could enter and dig in at the fort.

The sellswords managed to reach the Volantenes just as they arrived at the fort, and forcing Malaro to sacrifice his cavalry, numbering some five hundred horsemen, to allow the rest of his army to reach and close the fort. The sellswords, having dealt with the Volantene cavalry, now called for parley.

"Volantenes," the self-important sellsword carrying a white flag shouted up at Malaro and his men on the fort's walls. "Your army is defeated. There is no escape. Surrender now, and your lives will be spared."

"We will not be as slaves to be bartered with, sellsword!" Malaro shouted down in response. "And we are far from defeated, as you will soon learn! No surrender! No retreat! We will stand fast here, and await our allies' coming!"

"So be it then." The sellsword said before turning his horse, and riding back to his lines.

With the Volantenes refusing to surrender, the sellswords surrounded the fort, digging and piling up simple earthworks to reinforce the siege. The fort itself was formidable, with a thick, stone curtain wall rising high around the hill, its battlements manned by archers and other soldiers. The Volantenes might be outnumbered, but in a defensive position, so long as they were reinforced quickly enough, that wasn't as big a disadvantage as it would usually be.

There was only one gate through the curtain wall, with a square keep built around and over it. The main keep of the fort was located at the top of the hill, built like a square with thick walls and crowned with battlements. Blockhouses and the like crowded along the lower slopes of the hill, but the upper slopes were bare and somewhat sheer, adding to the defensive value of the main keep.

The sellswords had several options for a siege. They could starve the defenders out, but that would take time, even more so as the retreating Volantenes had not been so pressed that they had had to abandon their supply train. They had their own water sources in the fort, which meant that with rationing, the Volantenes could hold out for quite a long time.

Time the sellswords did not have: The Rhoyne was only a few miles away, and with ships Volantis could send reinforcements within a matter of weeks at most. More levies from their citizens, or other free companies.

Thus, starving out the fort was not an option. Another option was to storm the fort with scaling ladders, but the sellswords had no wood with which to make scaling ladders, and this far south trees weren't particularly common outside of small copses dotted far and wide across the land, or in orchards, none of which were particularly close. And this also removed the option of building other, heavier siege engines, such as trebuchets and siege towers.

Which left only one option: mining.

At daybreak on the following day, the sellswords began digging, tunneling down into the ground, and using the removed rock and soil to further strengthen their earthworks, steadily made their way underground towards the fort. From the walls, the Volantenes watched with growing apprehension, preparing themselves for the inevitable attack, while their commanders prayed their riders managed to reach safety and call for help, and for said help to arrive before it was too late.

Within a matter of days, one of the sections of the curtain wall began to buckle under its own weight, a sign that its foundation had been undermined. Malaro immediately evacuated that section of the wall, and had his men prepare for the inevitable attack. Likewise, within their lines the sellswords prepared to storm the fort.

It was in the middle of the morning of the following day that the sellswords finally succeeded in breaching the curtain wall. One moment, it stood deceptively high and strong, but in the next it began to totter, before seeming to fall in on itself.

The sound of breaking and falling stone echoed across the fort and the surrounding hills and plains, followed by the sounding of horns on both sides. Inside the fort, the Volantenes marshalled to repel the enemy attack, while behind their lines the sellswords formed up and marched out.

The sellswords attacked from two directions. One made for the breach in the curtain wall, the other for the gates, carrying with them an iron-headed battering ram. Volantene archers rained down arrows on the sellswords as they approached, the sellswords returning fire as they advanced with shields raised, until and even after they reached their destinations.

"BRACE!" the shout went up, scores of Volantene soldiers bracing the gates with their massed bodies as the sellswords brought up their battering ram. The ram struck the iron-banded wood, which shuddered at the impact and had the Volantenes staggering back momentarily, before they pressed forward again to brace the gates.

Above, archers and crossbowmen shot arrows and bolts into the close ranks of the sellswords, while others dropped stones into their ranks. The sellswords fired up with crossbows, while elsewhere on the walls, Volantene archers rained arrows down on sellswords trying to clamber over the ruined section of the curtain wall. The sellswords returned fire, lessening the onslaught somewhat, but as they crossed the broken pile of rubble, the first men through the breach faced more crossbowmen, forming the first rank of the Volantene lines within the fort.

"LOOSE!" the command was shouted, and steel bolts tore into the sellsword ranks. Those behind them roared in anger and charged, the Volantenes pulling back their crossbowmen as those behind them leveled spears.

The sellswords and the Volantene ranks met and clashed, the air inside the fort filling with angry shouts and yells, screams and cries of pain, pathetic whimpers and sickly gurgles, the sound of bodies falling, and the ringing of steel and iron striking against each other. Archers and crossbowmen on the walls continued to shoot until they ran out of ammunition, and then clambering down joined in on the fight, the sellswords continuing to clamber over the breach.

Elsewhere, the gates broke, sellswords firing crossbows into the Volantenes packed into the gatehouse. Men went down with cries of pain, and then sellswords were charging, quickly taking half the gatehouse before being stopped, the gatehouse turning into a charnel house as Volantenes and sellswords butchered each other in the close, darkened space.

Nevertheless, with the fort's defenses breached, and the Volantenes outnumbered, the outcome was clear: the sellswords, and their employers in the west, had won. All that was left was how many Malaro and his men would take with them to the grave.

That is, until a new sound filled the air: roaring. And not the roaring of a great mass of men rushing into battle, but a deep, growling roar that no Human throat or beast of the field and forest could ever make. No, it was a roar not heard in centuries.

Across the battlefield, men stopped fighting to look in its direction, up at the moderately-overcast skies. And then they broke through the clouds, six great beasts of scale and horn, armored figures mounted atop and chained to their saddles.

Eyes widened in shock and horror among the sellswords, while the Volantenes grinned and yelled in triumph. "DRAGONS!" a sellsword shouted.

* * *

Jaenera leaned forward as she swooped down towards the fort, eyes narrowing as she noticed the breach and the bloody battlefield behind it. Sharing her thoughts with Aelarys on a subconscious level, the Lord Freeholder spoke a single word.

"Dracarys!"

Flames the color of steel and flecked with blue erupted from Aelarys' maw with a roar. Sellswords barely had time to scream before the flames reduced them to smoking husks in an instant, weapons and armor reduced to molten slag pooled on the ground, and as the dragons flew by, the force of the wind of their wings caused the husks to crumble into dust on the wind.

The sellswords broke, turning to run in blind panic, their officers and horsemen already galloping away in an attempt to escape. Every sellsword which had crossed the breach was already dead, killed either by Aelarys' flames or by Volantene blades, and yet there were still over ten thousand men outside.

"Dracarys!" Jaenera shouted again, Aelarys roaring as he belched flames and turned hundreds of men to ash in a single pass.

"Dracarys!" the other dragonriders in Jaenera's squadron followed, multicolored flames washing down to join the lord freeholder's dragon's own to put the sellswords down.

Some few sellswords tried to shoot down the dragons in desperation, but their shots either went wide, or just bounced harmlessly off dragon scales. They too barely had time to scream as dragonfire consumed them.

Realizing there was no escape, and only death otherwise awaited them, many sellswords threw their weapons down and raised their hands in surrender. Those the dragonriders ignored, focusing their wrath on the sellswords still trying to escape, and were rounded up and placed under guard by the Volantenes which were now sortieing from their fort.

By the time it was all over, over thirteen thousand sellswords were dead, and of those, only a thousand would have bodies. The rest were dust on the wind, or scattered along the banks of the Rhoyne.

* * *

Outside the fort, under the hot tropical Sun, over a thousand disarmed sellswords were made to kneel under the watchful eyes and drawn weapons of the Volantenes. Not that it was truly needed, what with six dragons landed before them, wisps of smoke gently drifting from their nostrils, each of them large enough to swallow a mounted and fully-armed and armored Westerosi knight whole.

The one at the lead had scales the color of dull steel, while its horns, crest, and wing bones were a rich blue. The rider dismounted, wearing a mail hauberk that reached down to their wrists and knees, their shins and forearms protected by steel greaves and vambraces enameled in green decorated with silver flourishes.

The rider removed their pointed cap of steel, and to the surprise of the sellswords, there standing before them was a woman, her gold-silver hair tied back into a ponytail. Violet eyes looked out hard at the sellswords, while her beautiful face was marred by an expression of contempt.

"I am Lord Freeholder Jaenera Targaryen." She said, prompting gasps from many across the sellswords. The title of lord freeholder was largely obscure, after four hundred years, but the name…the family name especially…

…it was far from obscure.

"Who among you lowlifes do you consider as your leader, as well as their lieutenants?" Jaenera demanded. "Step forwards!"

For a few moments there was only muttering and glances across the sellswords, and then two men were stepping forward. "I am Ballylo Ostar," one of them said, a balding man with a bushy white beard. "And this is Vogicho Ostatis. The captain is dead, as are the other commanders."

"I see." Jaenera said with a nod. "I understand you are sellswords, yes? Who fight only for gold?"

"We are." Ballylo said with a nod.

"I see." Jaenera said with another nod. "If so, then you have no real conviction standing against my people and our allies. For you, this war is merely part of your occupation in life."

"…yes."

Jaenera nodded again. "Nevertheless," she said. "You stood against us, and that cannot be allowed to pass. Examples have to be made, but as per the authority granted to me by Triarch Laeraenar Aggaeron, I judge that mercy is called for here and now. Rest assured, your men shall be treated with even greater mercy than you shall be."

Jaenera paused, and stared at the men in their eyes. There was fear there, and resignation, but also resolve and surprisingly, composed calm. Men who knew they faced their deaths, and nothing they could do would prevent it from claiming them, and thus would meet it with what little pride and dignity they had left.

She could respect that.

"Aelarys, dracarys."

Aelarys let loose a blast of flame, and turned the two sellsword commanders to smoking husks that broke apart into smoking fragments and dust on the ground. Jaenera gestured, and the Volantenes began leading the terrified sellswords away.

All save for one.

"Your Grace…Your Grace…" one of the sellswords said, staggering out from among his fellow prisoners, only to be restrained and pulled away by three Volantene soldiers. "I beg you…please Your Grace…!"

Jaenera ignored him, instead turning back to her dragon. The beast lowered his head, sending a hot blast of air into his rider's face, Jaenera smiling fondly while she stroked Aelarys' snout.

"Your Grace! Please…I fought under your kin, Prince Rhaegar, at the Trident! Please, Your Grace!"

Jaenera whirled, eyes wide in surprise, and then narrowing she strode forward. "Hold!" she ordered the Volantenes. "Bring him here!"

The Volantenes made haste to comply, bringing the man before the lord freeholder. A man of average height but very well built, the sellsword sank to one knee. "Who are you?" Jaenera demanded.

"Your Grace," the man began. "I be Ser Davis Brickfist, a knight of Crackclaw Point. No, I was once a knight, now I be just a lowly sellsword."

"Never mind that," Jaenera impatiently said. "You claim to have fought under my kinsman, my distant nephew, Rhaegar Targaryen. Is this true?"

"Aye, Your Grace."

"Look at me."

The knight raised his head, dark eyes meeting amethyst ones. "Is it true?" Jaenera asked.

"Aye Your Grace."

Jaenera was silent for several moments, and then she nodded slowly. "So it is." She said. "It also seems to me that you have great loyalty to my kin…and yet you fought against my people, and our allies from Volantis. Even if it was for gold, and not out of personal conviction for the cause, you raised arms against us."

"Forgive me Your Grace," the man said. "But from where we stand, the idea of Valyria returned is…outlandish, very much so."

"And now?"

"There be no further doubt, when dragons fly once more."

"If only others thought so too." Jaenera said with a sigh. "And? It seems to me as though you no longer consider yourself as one of the lower orders of Andal nobility."

"Your Grace?"

"You mentioned earlier that you no longer considered yourself a knight."

The man lowered his head, his face twisted with bitterness. "We at Crackclaw Point only ever bent the knee before the Iron Throne." He said. "Dragons forged that throne, so we used to say 'we're all good dragon men, down Crackclaw Point'. But after the Usurper killed the Silver Prince on the Trident, and the Kingslayer killed King Aerys and the dogs of Tywin Lannister killed Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys…the choice was to bend the knee to a murderous brute defiling the Iron Throne, his bitch of a queen, and the whole pack of traitor dogs around them…or to come here. Exile, seeking fortune, or just death with what little honor there is left…"

"Too many words…" Jaenera said with a roll of her eyes, but after a moment, she gestured, and Ser Brickfist was lifted to his feet. "What would you do now, Ser Brickfist?"

"I would serve you and yours in any way I can, Your Grace." He said. "Whether to carry out your bidding, to protect you from your enemies, even to reclaim the Iron Throne…I would do it all."

"Indeed…we shall see. Hold him."

The Volantenes restrained the knight, and pulling out a dragonglass dagger and a small vial of crystal from her belt, Jaenera extracted some blood from the surprised knight. "Go to Volantis." Jaenera said while stoppering the vial and placing it back on her belt. "I will pass final judgment there. Know however, that there are no kings or queens in Valyria. Understand, and take measure. Furthermore, in the event of even the smallest betrayal…"

Jaenera paused and tapped her belt. "You will beg to die by Aelarys' flames." She said. "Release him."

The Volantenes released the knight, Jaenera already striding back to Aelarys. "If you wish to seek your fortune elsewhere," she said while replacing the chains on her saddle. "Then by all means, do so. That is the very least you deserve, for your loyalty to my kin."

Snapping and snarling, Aelarys and the other dragons stirred, stretching their wings before flying up into the sky.

* * *

The Meereenese had fortified the crossings over the Skahazadhan river, to the east of their city. North of the river's mouth, opposite the city's walls, Valyrian soldiers had dug in, raising simple earthworks to protect themselves from sorties across the river.

To surround the city and thus force it to surrender one way or another, the Valyrian Army had to cross the Skahazadhan river, and the Meereenese knew it. Ten thousand sellswords had been bought by gold, reinforcing the Meereenese Army and bringing it up to thirty thousand men. Of those, ten thousand were in Meereen, manning the city's defenses, while the rest – including the sellswords – were holding the river crossings to the east.

It was nearly noon when the Valyrian Army appeared, though the Meereenese and their sellswords had had advance warning, outriders of the latter riding in hours earlier to warn of the Valyrians' coming. Captain Daario Foriros immediately ordered his men into formation, with the ten thousand sellswords forming the front of the center, and the Meereenese to the rear. What cavalry they had formed the wings.

Then they waited.

Slowly but steadily, the Valyrian Army arrived. Outriders first, who galloped back at the sight of the Meereenese. And then they came, solid ranks of men in mail and pointed caps, with swords, spears and round shields, and bows made from wood, bone, and sinew.

To the left and right of their infantry, the Valyrian cavalry rode, clad almost completely in mail, heads and faces hidden by enclosing helmets. The horses were armored in bronze scales, and lances were raised skyward, if lacking the pennants usually found on Westerosi lances, who were (grudgingly) admittedly the best lancers in the known world.

Over the hills they came, numbering in the tens of thousands. And yet…

…something was wrong.

The Valyrians made no move to shift from marching formation to battle formation, and instead continued to march towards the crossings seemingly without any concern for the enemies positioned protectively in front of or over the crossings. The Meereenese and the sellswords looked at each other with a mix of confusion and – to those with enough experience to feel it – apprehension.

Their commanders were equally confused. Did the Valyrians – or as they most likely were – Volantenes think they could just sweep them away? Or that they would break at the sight of the Volantene Army? If so, then they had another thing coming to them, but…

…it didn't seem to fit, however.

The answer came when roars could be heard from the sky to the east. Eyes and heads turned in its direction, and utter horror struck the Meereenese and their sellswords when dozens of dragons flew down from the sky.

"Dracarys!" Triarch Laemar Lennareon ordered, standing on his dragon's head, holding onto one of the dragon's crest bones.

The dragon roared, and unleashed a blast of red and gold flame. Men and horses were reduced to ash and molten slag in an instant, the gigantic dragon, at least as big as the legendary Balerion the Black, laying waste to the entire right wing of the Meereenese Army in a single pass.

The Meereenese and the sellswords broke, running in every direction, desperate to escape. Others jumped into the river, swimming beneath the dirty water and only surfacing to take gasping breaths before slipping beneath again, perhaps hoping the water would keep them safe from dragonfire.

If so, then it would be a costly mistake.

Great clouds of rank-smelling steam filled the air as multiple dragons bathed the river with their fire, flash-boiling the water on the surface, and bringing the water underneath to a boil. Men died horribly, unable to scream as they were literally boiled alive in the river, while ash drifted with the steam, all that was left of the men that had tried to hold the river.

The Valyrian Army continued to march, stopping only to camp for noon and for the river to cool and the steam to be blown away. Meanwhile, the dragonlords moved on, hunting down any stragglers and dealing with them thoroughly with dragonfire.

* * *

Even as the Meereenese Army was dying along the Skahazadhan river, on the waters of Slaver's Bay, their fleet was also dying. The Valyrian fleet and the Meereenese fleet had more or less the same number of ships, but the Valyrians had more galleys, and indeed it was the mainstay of their fleet. In contrast, galleys formed only the backbone of the Meereenese fleet, with the greater part of their ships composed of small and fast dhows.

To their credit, the Meereenese used them effectively. Swarming the bigger but slower Valyrian galleys, they outflanked the bigger ships, shooting fire arrows as they closed. They made no attempt to board, indeed, the Meereenese knew such would be an exercise in futility and with the small size of their dhows, put them at greater risk of being overwhelmed and counter-boarded by the larger numbers of men carried by Valyrian galleys.

The Meereenese galleys engaged normally however, raining down arrows and stones as they closed with the Valyrians, the pilots of both sides trying to steer their galleys and use their prow spurs to break their respective enemies' oars, and to avoid such being done to them. When they got to boarding range, boarding ramps were dropped, and both sides clashed in hand to hand.

Ships burned and men fought and died for hours, bodies and broken wood floating on the waters of Slaver's Bay as the two fleets fought. Unable to turn the Meereenese wings, Admiral Vigarys came to a decision.

"We'll give up on turning the enemy's wings." He ordered. "Signal the fleet, take a spindle formation, and break through the enemy center."

"Yes sir!"

Signal flags relayed the orders, and within thirty minutes the Valyrians were moving to attack and break through the Meereenese center, and scatter the survivors in the aftermath. Meereenese dhows took point, preparing to flank the Valyrian spearhead and set the dromons ablaze, but the Valyrians still had two aces up their sleeve.

One was used as the dhows charged in. Ports opened on the dromons' forecastles, tubular constructs shaped like roaring dragons extending outwards, carved from nothing less than dragonsteel. Only dragonsteel could endure what they were meant to channel after all, even with magic harnessing what was to come forth.

The dhows swooped in…

…and great plumes of green flame erupted from the dromons.

The dhows vanished. They literally blew apart and the fragments were consumed by the green flames, men, ships, and sails alike.

The Westerosi called it wildfire. The Valyrians called it soulless fire, for it was akin to dragonfire, sharing many of its properties, though lacking others due to its origin. Produced by means of alchemy and controlled by magic, the name was given by the Valyrians for how such potent flames were produced without the powerful and fiery spirits made flesh that were dragons, and indeed was theorized to be the reason why soulless fire shared some but not all the properties of actual dragonfire.

Glyphs burned cold on the dromons' hulls as they lumbered forward, soulless fire burning on the water licking away from their hulls, unable to catch any purchase. The Meereenese reeled at the unexpected development, with their commander, Admiral Izhil mo Nadhak gave the order to retreat, to reorganize the formation.

It was then that Valyria played its second trump card. Roaring in challenge, dozens of dragons swooped down from the clouds, and with great blast of multicolored flame set ships ablaze by the dozen.

Panic erupted across the Meereenese fleet, even more so as the flagship was among those first set ablaze by dragonfire. Admiral Izhil died screaming, wreathed in flames and already turning black before he cast himself from the burning wreck of the _Harpy Sisters_ and into the waters below, death coming as a sweet release from pain as his armor dragged him beneath the waves.

The Meereenese fleet fell apart, ships trying to escape wherever and however they could. The Valyrians refused to let them escape, the Valyrian fleet spreading its wings to cut off the Meereenese's lines of retreat. The dromons pressed forward in the center, lashing out with soulless fire and blowing apart any ship, be it galley or dhow, that came within range. Arrows and stones and burning projectiles were fired at Meereenese ships by Valyrian artillery crews, and drawing up alongside boarded the Meereenese ships, fighting to kill everyone aboard.

And through it all, dragons kept swooping down again and again, burning ships and men without mercy.

It would take the better part of the day, but as the Sun touched the horizon, barring the few stragglers which managed to escape south, to Yunkai or Astapor or even Ghiscar and beyond, the Meereenese fleet was no more. Meereen was now all but defenseless on land or sea.

* * *

A/N

Well, this took longer than expected. The Isle of Cedars POV will be for next chapter, along with some POVs from other factions.

Also, say hello to our first Westerosi character, who may or may not have a bigger role later on.


	7. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I do not own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Return of Valyria

Chapter 6

The gates of Meereen hung open, allowing legion after legion to march into the city unchallenged. The Meereenese looked on with a mix of fear and resignation as rank after rank of red-cloaked soldiers in mail hauberks and pointed caps with aventails entered their city, their booted feet slamming into the pavements with uniform and disciplined regularity. Round shields proudly displayed legion emblems in Valyrian glyphs, as did banners and standards of red edged in gold.

And in the skies above, dragons danced in a great spiral centered on the Great Pyramid, on which roosted a mighty beast greater in size than even Aegon the Conqueror's Black Dread. There, standing on the shoulders of his mount, Laemar Lennareon, Triarch of the Valyrian Freehold, stared out over the city of Meereen, largest, greatest, most populous and richest and most powerful of the so-called Slaver Cities, which now lay prostate before the might of Valyria.

Their armies and fleet destroyed, and with the Valyrian Army tightening the noose and dragons ruling the skies unchallenged, the Great Masters had wisely chosen to surrender their city. In recognition of this fact, the Valyrian commanders had ordered their soldiers to simply occupy Meereen, and had strictly forbidden looting or indeed, any violence against Valyria's newest subjects without permission. Any who did so would be punished in accordance with the strictest discipline.

In accordance with those orders, the Valyrian Army was spreading out as they marched into the city. Some cohorts took control of the walls and the city's defenses, ordering sullen Meereenese soldiers back to their barracks to await further orders. Others set up cordons and checkpoints in the city's main thoroughfares and more important streets, while others were setting up rally points in the city, in case things took a turn for the worse and the Valyrian Army had to come down hard on the Meereenese.

Others swept the Great Pyramid and other pyramids of the city, or surrounded the homes of the city's rich and powerful. Others made certain to ensure what was left of the Meereenese Army would stand down, while others gathered and escorted the Great Masters to the Plaza of Purification, where they would meet with the Triarch and hear Valyria's terms.

The Sun was setting when all the Great Masters were gathered in the Plaza of Purification, and there many shook with impotent rage as they beheld the shattered remains of the great bronze harpy that had once graced the plaza. Rage turned to fear and terror as they heard a great roar, and brilliant fire lit up the sky.

Dozens of dragons let loose with dragonfire, aimed at the harpies crowning the pyramids of Meereen. Bronze and gold softened like wax, and flowed in molten rivers downs the steps of the pyramids. Grief and resignation followed fear and terror, and more than one Great Master collapsed to the ground sobbing at the sight, as the truth of their situation was driven in with unrelenting and unstoppable force.

Soon, the mightiest dragon present was winging across the skies of Meereen, and then swooping down with a snarl that had more than one Meereenese running for cover or loosening their bowels, descended on the plaza of purification. The dragon's landing shook the ground, and such was its size that its landing collapsed many of the surrounding buildings.

Terrified, the Great Masters fell to their knees. On his dragon, Triarch Laemar surveyed the Great Masters with judging eyes, having removed his Andal-styled helmet to allow his gold-silver hair to flow freely over his shoulders. Turning his head slowly, the Triarch swept the Great Masters with his amethyst gaze, not one daring to meet it.

In truth, the Triarch cared little for the Great Masters, and would gladly order his dragon to burn them to ash in an instant. But alas, needs must.

Yunkai and Astapor waited further south, and beyond them was the specter of the New Ghiscari Empire. Valyria's economy was also still on shaky legs, threatening to give out at any moment, and so for now it was necessary to make compromises to maximize the worth of any gains made during this stage of the Freehold's reclamation.

Allowing the Great Masters to continue to govern Meereen under the Freehold, and paying taxes productively would serve the Freehold better than sparking a revolt here and now when victory was at hand, and leaving the Freehold with naught but a burnt out husk of a city that would contribute little in the short term. And so, if the Meereenese would submit, then the Freehold would allow them a place.

"You have made a most wise decision." Triarch Laemar began. "Had you chosen to resist, all around you would be ash and dust. But as you have chosen wisely, that fate is averted, both for your city and yourselves."

The Triarch paused. "The Freehold's terms will be simple." He continued after a moment. "You and yours will swear allegiance as subjects of the Valyrian Freehold, and in return your property and the property of the citizens of this city will be respected. You will also be allowed to continue to govern the city, albeit in the Freehold's name henceforth. In recognition of this fact, an Archon will be appointed by the Lords Freeholder to oversee the city, and of course, annual taxes will be levied and will be expected to be paid in full and on time. Meereen shall also forfeit its fleet and army, with the defense of the city to be entrusted to the Valyrian Army and Navy. Households will continue to be allowed to hire their own guards within reason, however, and of course, you will be granted a say in any revisions of the city's laws when and where they do not conform with Gaenor's Code and the Fourteen Tablets. What say you?"

What followed was a confused chorus of agreement and oaths and assurance of loyalty, and which had the Triarch sneering. "One by one," he said loudly. "Come forward, and express your submission and swear allegiance."

The confused chorus died down, and one by one the Great Masters came forward and kneeling before the Triarch and his dragon, expressed their acceptance of the Freehold's terms and swearing allegiance. Once all were done, Triarch Laemar nodded and made to depart.

"Excellent," he said. "You are truly most wise. Return to your homes, and rejoice in your wisdom and what fruit it has allowed you to reap. Others are not so wise, and lack such privilege. Go, but know that come tomorrow, your presence will be required to place your signatures on the official documentation for Meereen's submission to the Valyrian Freehold."

And with those words and the thunder of titanic wings beating into the air, the Triarch soared up into the sky.

* * *

Located in the approximate middle of the straits which connect Slavers' Bay and the Gulf of Grief is the Isle of Cedars. Named for the cedar forests which grow on the island, it was also once known as the Isle of a Hundred Battles, calling back to the countless struggles for control of the island thousands of years ago during the wars between Valyria and Old Ghis.

Though the former inhabitants of the island were of Ghiscari stock, like much of their people they were forced to submit and adopt the language and many customs of the victorious Valyrians in the wake of those wars. Ghozai and Velos, the two cities on the island, grew rich from their control of shipping passing through the surrounding waters, but ultimately it would be those same waters which would bring their doom.

When the Doom of Valyria came, great waves hundreds of feet high drowned the cities. Hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children, all the houses and hovels, the wall, pyramids, aqueducts, dragons and sphinxes…all of them were swept away by the waves, leaving naught but broken ruins that would ultimately be reclaimed by the land.

In the centuries since, many attempts have been made to reclaim the island. The Ghiscari first and foremost, even the Volantenes, and of course pirates and common slavers, among other such lowly ilk. All failed.

All the death and destruction unleashed on the island had seeded the ruins and their surroundings with dark and terrible echoes, which drove men mad and turned nature against them. So it had been for centuries, and though men of wealth, power, and lore scoffed at such tales, neither did they press too eagerly to reclaim the island, and in taverns along the surrounding waters, tales of horror and dread were whispered of the haunted ruins of the Isle of Cedars, where the animals grew fearless of man, so unknown was he to them.

So it had been for centuries…

…but with the return of Valyria, the dragonlords decreed that not even the echoes of their seeming doom wouldhold them back from reclaiming what was once part of their domain.

Ships surrounded the Isle of Cedars at a safe distance, having brought men – sorcerers, acolytes, slaves and servants – and what they needed with them. Now they waited and watched, as the adepts of the arcane sought to enact the dragonlords' will.

At fourteen points around the island, circles were cut into the ground. Twin, interlocking septagrams were then overlaid over the circles, and at the fourteen points produced by those septagrams fourteen glyphs were similarly inscribed into the ground. Sorcerers stood before each of those points, clad in red and gold, and holding aloft staves of gilded wood, topped with golden dragons wreathed in sorcerous flame.

Behind the sorcerers were arrayed a great choir of acolytes, clad in pure white, chanting in the background and kindling the faintest hint of…something, supernatural, earie, otherworldly, _magical_ in the air. It was just something on the edge of comprehension, lurking in the back of a witness' mind, the exact word to describe it at the tip of one's tongue but could never be _right_ , and marked by the faintest touch of acridity in the air.

The sorcerers stayed silent, merely tapping their staves against the ground in unison at timed intervals. Before each and every one of them, a slave knelt on the ground, stripped naked and with long, flowing scripts carved into their flesh, the glyphs bleeding happily and refusing to even so much as begin to heal, kept open by the power represented by each glyph and what they together meant.

And beyond the chanting acolytes, sworn servants of the sorcerers clad in black and masked in silver sacrificed more slaves by the hundred. A hundred slaves at fourteen points around the island, fourteen hundred lives taken and their blood and living energies fed to power the spells of the sorcerers.

Already the fetid energies were swirling around the sorcerers and their acolytes, the servants of the former standing in a great circle with their backs to their masters, silver masks staring into the growing darkness while blades of dragonglass were raised point upwards before them. The energies of death stirred, like calling to like, the veil thinning as the energies gathered by the sorcerers of Valyria hung heavy, like stones weighing it down and pulling it to the breaking point.

The monkeys and birds on the Isle of Cedars screamed and fled. The latter were fortunate in that they could fly, winging their way into the skies and vanishing into the distance. The former were not so fortunate, many seeking refuge in the deepening shadows of the forest, fleeing from what they could feel was coming.

None would return.

The shadows deepened, countless whispers echoing outwards to be joined by screams and the sound of roaring waves, breaking wood and rock, and the thunder of the land being drowned. In the ruins of Ghozai and Velos, translucent images shimmered into existence, superimposed over the broken ruins, of mighty walls that towered protectively over the houses and buildings behind. Stepped pyramids that reached up high into the sky, dragons of gilded bronze and sphinxes of marble with eyes of garnet, mansions and galleries of colored stone, cedar, and glass, trellises covered with vines, and gardens from which the sound of music could be heard.

And then the sky darkened, black clouds shot through with touches of angry red blotting out the Sun, lightning bolts crisscrossing the darkness and punctuated by blasts of thunder. The waters receded from the shores, beaching hundreds of boats and ships before the astonished eyes of those present, while others stared with apprehension at the angry red in the distant horizon.

And then the waters returned, great waves hundreds of feet high. Men and women and children turned and fled, desperate to get out of the cities and reach higher ground before it was too late. And too late it was, and the waves swept over the harbors, shattering the beached boats and ships into countless fragments and tearing apart the stone quays. They swept past, swallowing everything and everyone in its wake, countless dying in the darkness of the Doom of Valyria, whether broken by the waves or drowned in its waters…

…and now those ghastly shades screamed as their rest was disturbed, the veil tearing and spilling forth a tide of unquiet spirits. Their appearances echoed the violence of their deaths, many mangled beyond recognition as the waves smashed them against the ground or the broken ruins of their cities, while others were pale and rotting, having survived the initial violence only to be dragged out to sea as the waters receded, drowning and rotting in the deeps.

They screamed and wailed, ghastly cries and echoes that would have struck men dead in an instant, and reached out with grasping, half-real fingers and claws that would have stolen a living man's soul out of his body, or should he have the strength to hold fast, at least have a portion of his life taken as a price for his resistance, and thus aged prematurely as a result. But the sworn servants of the sorcerers, the men and women of the Obsidian Brotherhood stood fast, and as the wraiths threw themselves against their circle again and again to no effect, many among the wraiths began to hesitate. Something was getting through to them, an instant and an eternity of restless sleep unable to stop the faintest hint of comprehension returning, as the Obsidian Brothers and Sisters' unnatural…no, _inhuman_ resistance, and with it came fear, fear as to what lay behind their silver masks, at the power imbued into their dragonglass blades, at the price paid to achieve such, and what chains the dragonlords laid upon them to keep them in check.

The sorcerers struck their staves against the ground in a single, ominous motion, and the acolytes stopped chanting. Ominous silence fell, even the wraiths struck silent by an impossible feeling of dread. And then as one, the sorcerers drew dragonglass daggers and struck the slaves before them dead.

Corpses fell and blood spilled…and the circles blazed with sorcerous fire, the sorcerers singing a spell as the acolytes chanted once more. As they sang the flames roared and grew and merging into one, fourteen dragons of sorcerous flame rising into the sky. As one they flew in great circles, before striking down, back to the ground.

As they struck, the sorcerers completed their spell on a rising note, and struck the ground with their staves as one.

The flames died. The wraiths vanished with a single, terrified scream. Every last animal on the island died. In distant Braavos, the faces in the House of Black and White opened their eyes and mouths.

And they laughed.

* * *

"And how are you today, my prince?"

Prince Viserys Targaryen of Dragonstone, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, gave his Myrish host an unreadable glance. The smug and self-assured magister didn't seem to register, and after a moment Viserys nodded and gave a polite smile. "Better," he said. "Much better, than when myself and my sister first arrived in this city and you took us in."

"I am glad to hear that, my prince." Magister Malan Sanios said with a nod. "Let it not be said that I am an ungenerous host."

The magister clapped his hands, and slaves appeared, serving spiced wine and iced water with sweetmeats and confectioneries. The magister took a seat opposite Viserys, and after a slave poured him some wine, the same slave poured for Viserys as well. Viserys raised his glass.

"To your health, magister." Viserys said.

The magister nodded. "And to yours." He said, the magister and the prince toasting each other before taking a drink.

For a few moments the magister and the prince drank in silence but for the soft fanning of the slaves, and then Malan placed his glass on the table between them. "Now then," he began. "Since it seems you've recovered from your previous travails shall we get down to business?"

Viserys paused mid-drink, and then finishing also placed his glass down. "Indeed," he said. "I'm not one for playing with words, magister, so I'll ask your pardon first if I seem…impolite, in our coming conversation."

"I find that hard to believe, my prince." Malan said with faint surprise. "As one of royal blood, I'd have assumed you would have been well-taught the importance of diplomacy, and how to conduct it."

"So I have," Viserys agreed. "But alas, with nearly half of my fourteen years of life spent in exile, and all the recent hardships…I confess myself… _lacking_ , the stomach for games of words."

The magister sat back, thinking in silence for several moments. Finally, he gave several small nods. "True," he said. "And I suppose plain words will do much better in private company. Very well my prince, you have my pardon in advance for…uncouth, words."

"Then I shall take you at your word." Viserys said before his eyes and voice hardened. "Speaking frankly magister, what is it you seek to gain by harboring myself, my sister, and indeed, what does Myr seek to gain by harboring the refugees cast out by Braavos and Norvos, and turned away by Pentos?"

"Ah, I see." Malan said with a small smile, and nodding softly. "Very well then, answering in the reverse order you gave your questions in, I am certain you are well aware that all the refugees from the north are like yourself, those with strong strains of Valyrian blood?"

"I am aware." Viserys said bitterly. "I am also aware that is why we were cast out as well."

"And you are also aware that as of this moment, for the first time in nearly three hundred years," Malan continued. "Myr is in the middle of talks with Lys and Tyrosh to revive the Triarchy of the Three Daughters?"

Viserys blinked, and then nodding slowly sat back. "I see." He said. "So that's how it is."

"Valyrian blood runs strong in the people of Lys." Malan said with a nod of his own. "Universally so, in fact. And while there are those among the Tyroshi and even here in Myr who would like to act as the Braavosi and the Norvoshi have to those who can call themselves true-blooded children of Valyria…alas, doing so would likely doom our plan to revive our old alliance and with it a chance to stand against the reviving power of Valyria and Volantis. That would not go down well with just as many if not more, not just among the Three Daughters, but also in Braavos as well."

"Braavos?" Viserys echoed incredulously. "Surely you jest. Did not the Braavosi…"

"The Braavosi are a pragmatic lot." Malan interrupted. "They wanted you out of their city, but at the same time they know unity among the Free Cities is needed to stand against Valyria and Volantis. And they know they cannot push the issue of casting out those of true Valyrian descent here in the south, given the nature of Lys' populace. And ultimately, the ones who acted as they did in Braavos was merely the mob. The Sealord and his magisters and keyholders, never officially sanctioned their actions, and indeed, once the mob had sated its thirst for blood, did not hesitate to apply sanctions for damages incurred during the riots."

"And yet," Viserys countered. "Neither did they try to stop the mob."

"Indeed," Malan agreed. "They stood aside."

For several long moments there was silence, and then Viserys leaned forward. "That answers my second question," he began. "And the first?"

"Tell me Prince Viserys," Malan said softly. "Do you honest think we can stand against Valyria and Volantis both? Not just their fleets and armies, but their dragons as well?"

Viserys was silent for a long time. "Dragons are not invincible." He finally ventured. "The death of Queen Rhaenys during the First Dornish War proves that, as did the deaths of numerous dragons during the Dance of Dragons."

"Her Grace was but one rider, admittedly the most skilled among her siblings and on a mount worthy of the Freehold both of old and returned," Malan said. "But just _one rider_ for all that still. And those which were felled during the Dance of Dragons fell at the fangs and claws of their own, or if felled by siege engines, they were by then pale shadows of the dragons of old."

"Which were not invincible either," Viserys said with narrowed eyes. "The Ghiscari held out for a thousand years, with many stories and legends coming from those times of…heroes, who slew Valyrian dragons in their empire's wars with the Freehold. And of course, there was the Second Spice War, wherein the Rhoynar slew three dragons."

"And brought down the wrath of hundreds more, turning the Rhoyne into an inferno."

Viserys sat back. "The Rhoynar aside," he continued with a calculating light in his eyes. "You do not believe in the example set by the Ghiscari?"

Malan laughed. "What did those wars accomplish for them?" he asked. "You know as well as I do that each and every war between Valyria and Old Ghis only taught the former more and more lessons, helped raise our people to greater heights, until in the end the harpy and its pyramids were cast down, and the dragon reigned triumphant. No, even if war with Valyria does not go the way of the Second Spice War, even if it ends with a stalemate like the First War between Valyria and Old Ghis, all it would do is teach Valyria how to defeat us when the next war comes."

"I don't imagine Braavos or others to appreciate such sentiments."

"Sentiment, you say?" Malan said with spread hands. "We would prefer to call it…calculation. Myr has long held the reputation of being the most advanced of the Free Cities, with some of the craftiest artisans and inventors, and innovative minds in the known world. And we can observe from the past patterns that can be used to predict the future. No…Braavos and the others are free to delude themselves into thinking they can defy and even triumph over Valyria. But we are not required to share in their delusions and fates of dying in dragonfire. Done right, we could reap great reward much like Volantis intends to by aiding Valyria. Whether covertly, or openly, one way or another, sooner or later."

Viserys tapped his finger against an armrest for several moments, and then leaning forward nodded. "What do you and your fellow magisters have in mind?" he asked.

Malan smiled.

* * *

"Jon, I'm tired."

Jon Connington, former Lord of Griffin's Roost and Hand of the King sighed. "Just a little more, and we'll make camp." He said.

"And after?" Aegon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms asked.

"It's almost the middle of the day, so we'll make camp for a few hours, wait for the heat to die down before continuing to march." Jon said. "It wouldn't do to push the men too much, and tire them out. If we did that and get attacked, then we'd be done for if we don't have the strength to fight back properly."

"Alright."

The eight-year old boy settled down on his pony, riding next to the former lord and surrounded by knights in ornately-decorated armor and golden surcoats and cloaks. A black pike from which hung several gilded skulls on chains was emblazoned on their surcoats and shields, the emblem of the famous Golden Company. The same Golden Company which now marched behind Jon, Aegon, and their knights.

"Hey," Aegon asked after a few moments.

"What?"

"Will it really go well?" Aegon asked. "I mean…will the Valyrians really help us get what we need?"

"They will." Jon asked. "Or at least as long as we don't pick a fight against them, they'll at least be willing to talk to us. And while your family never were among the most powerful dragonlords, you were still dragonlords. Once the Valyrians hear about what the Usurper and his pet lions did to the rest of your family…well, you already know the story of Garin the Great, don't you?"

Aegon nodded, his eyes hard. "They'll kill them all." He said with utter hatred. "Lions, stags, wolves, falcons, and fishes…traitors all of them…they'll burn in dragonfire or drown in their blood. Fire and blood…those are my family's words, right?"

"It is, Aegon." Jon said with a nod. "Fire and blood…fire and blood…"

And then looking forward, Jon stared with distant eyes at the horizon, at the memory of a silver-haired man in black armor decorated with rubies.

" _For you, my silver prince,_ " Jon thought to himself. " _All, and always for you…_ "

* * *

A/N

Meereen surrendered…which is actually quite smart of them. If they didn't, well, Meereen would be a smoking ruin, and the survivors led away in chains as slaves.

Sorcery, such a nasty business. All the death though, and unquiet dead forcibly being given peace…small wonder the many-faced god is laughing.

Viserys seems too…collected? Nonsense…what people always seem to forget is that the insane Viserys of AC 297-298 was only that way after decades of exile, humiliation, and hardship. Dany does remember that at one point Viserys was a genuinely kind and loving brother, and while Ser Barristan does say that Viserys was Aerys' son, it must also be kept in mind that Aerys never started out as mad. He only became paranoid after the events of Duskendale, which is actually quite understandable, plus the repeated miscarriages and stillbirths of his wife, which would have a negative effect on his already shaky mental health.

And which may not have been the result of inbreeding either, given Pycelle's true loyalty to Tywin, and Tywin's own ambitions to have his daughter be Rhaegar's queen. Make of that what you will.

Aegon, Jon, and the Golden Company are on the move. Now then, what will this lead to, I wonder?


	8. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I do not own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Return of Valyria

Chapter 7

The bells of the Great Sept rang dolorous notes across the city of King's Landing, and while he didn't consider himself a particularly superstitious man, Jon Arryn wondered if such men had a point in their beliefs. Pinching his nose, the Defender of the Vale and the Hand of the King sat back in his seat at the Small Council, to the right of Robert Baratheon, First of His Name and King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.

"So it's true, then." Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun said, the Master of Laws pale-faced and shaking. "They really have returned."

"Yes." Varys, Master of Whisperers, answered with an unusually serious tone. Hard to blame him, really, given the news he'd brought to the council's attention. "It's not a fanciful tale woven by Volantene orators to drum up support for yet another attempt at rebuilding the Freehold. No, the Freehold… _Valyria_ , has returned."

"…how?" Hoster asked in a whisper.

"…magic." Varys said with veiled contempt. "I do not know the details, and my spies in Volantis and elsewhere have been unable to uncover them as well. Understandable, given I have not had the time to establish a network within Valyria itself, and the Valyrians did not share the details of their mysteries with the Volantenes…"

"How they came back is an academic question." Prince Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone and Master of Ships interrupted. "What matters is what exactly the Valyrians and their Volantene allies plan to do. No…we already know what they plan to do: to rebuild the Freehold. To that end, what have you uncovered, Varys?"

"Of the Freehold of old," Varys began. "Only the peninsula and nearby islands have returned. This perhaps, is fortunate, as the greater part of Valyria's armies remain lost."

"…but?"

"Their fleet is largely intact from what I've been told." Varys said. "And of course, the heart of Valyrian power and might is there. Not just magic…dragons."

"…the forty families." Hoster said fearfully, and earning himself a veiled glare from the Prince of Dragonstone.

"Thirty-nine, if I may say so, my lord." Lord Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish, the newly-appointed Master of Coin said with a weak smile. "If I remember correctly, the Targaryens left Valyria long before the Doom, and if this is the Valyria from the Doom returned…well, there wouldn't be Targaryens among them."

"Not that it really matters when all is said and done," Stannis scoffed. "Though I imagine reducing the Valyrian dragonlords' numbers by any small fraction is a mercy we ought to be thankful for."

"At least," Littlefinger said with a small bow. "Until they find Viserys and Daenerys, of course. Then…who knows?"

"Yes…" Stannis said while narrowing his eyes. "Varys, have you any knowledge of their location?"

"Unfortunately," Varys apologetically began. "I lost track them during the chaos of the riots which engulfed Braavos. It is possible they were killed in said riots, along with plenty of others with Valyrian features, but it is also possible that they managed to escape…"

"Send word," Robert cut in, his face hard as stone and his eyes like ice. "A million dragons for whoever can bring me the heads of Viserys Targaryen and his sister."

"Robert…!" Jon protested.

"Gods damn it, Jon!" Robert thundered, slamming his fists against the table. "I will not allow those dragonspawn the chance to recover! Not when they have the chance to do so, by meeting with and perhaps gaining the aid of their misbegotten kin from Valyria! I will not have it!"

"This assumes the dragonlords of Valyria would even want to!" Jon snapped. "Have you forgotten their insane obsession with the purity of their blood? An obsession that led them to wed brother and sister for thousands of generations? Viserys and Daenerys, for all their appearance, are most definitely _not_ pure. Not when they have the blood of Westerosi houses in them."

"And you assume the Valyrians will still _not_ find a use for them, regardless." Stannis said. "…impure, their blood might be, but enough of it is of Valyrian descent that the dragonlords might still give them a place in their plans. Perhaps not in their homeland, but as…puppets, to place on the Iron Throne, to which they have a claim."

"Assuming of course, the Valyrians have an interest in Westeros." Jon said. "Even at the height of their power, despite having the means to come west, the Valyrians never did."

"Indeed," Stannis said, sitting back in his seat and narrowing his eyes. "And yet, there are Dragonstone, Driftmark, and Claw Isle. Stepping stones, one could imagine, the Valyrians never had time to use, for an expansion into Westeros."

"Prince Stannis has a point." Varys said, and Grand Maester Pycelle nodded.

"While what we know of the Freehold's intentions indicated that Dragonstone and its surrounding islands were established to control the center of the Narrow Sea," he added. "There is also no evidence that explicitly states the Valyrians had no interest in further expansion west."

"While it would be preferable to hope for the best," Varys continued. "We must also prepare for the worst."

Jon was silent for a long moment. "Perhaps you may be right," he conceded. "But to place a price on their heads…it might just provoke their kin to take action against us."

"Then what do you propose?" Stannis demanded. "That we do nothing? What if Viserys and Daenerys arrive at Volantis or Valyria, and gain aid from their kin? What then?"

"They are still rebuilding the Freehold, are they not?" Jon asked. "Even with dragons, it took them thousands of years to build their domain in the first place. A domain that even now, Volantis aside, opposes them. It is likely the Valyrians will have no time and resources to spare the Targaryen children."

"For how long?" Robert countered. "Today perhaps, and even tomorrow, the Valyrians have no interest in us. But the day after? And the day after that? Jon, you yourself taught me that if something needed doing here and now, and it was my duty to perform it, then I ought to do so, and not wait for someone else to do so in my place, much less to tarry and put it off until tomorrow. What's changed, Jon? Answer me, you owe me that much."

Jon was silent for another long moment, and then he sighed. "None who have opposed Valyria in its long history have succeeded in doing so." He said. "Ghiscar…the Rhoynar…they all fell and burned. I…I just don't want the same to happen to the Seven Kingdoms, to _you_ , Robert."

There was silence, and then Robert sighed. "I see where you are, and I understand." He said softly. "But, you also see and understand, don't you?"

Jon sighed and nodded. "Yes, I do." He said, and Robert nodded.

"Good," he said before turning back to the rest of the council. "And it's not like we're completely without hope. The Dornish brought down a dragon once, and plenty of dragons were slain during the dance. And the Ghiscari…maester, how long were they able to contest the Freehold?"

"A thousand years by all accounts, Your Grace." Pycelle answered. "Fragmentary tales and songs exist from those days, of heroes who fought and slew dragons and their riders."

"Heroes indeed, to bring down those hellspawn and send their spirits back to whence they came." Robert agreed. "Perhaps we might pick up where they left off, and finish what they started. Succeed where everyone else failed, and bring Valyria down."

"With much of their armies lost to them, Valyria is also more vulnerable now than it might be in the past, and in time." Stannis mused. "Something of an opportunity, I daresay."

"Yes," Robert agreed with slow nods. "Though that opportunity might be slipping from us. Varys, what do you know of Valyria's plans, and where are they at now?"

"According to my spies the Valyrians have cast their reach in two directions, east and north." Varys replied, rising to spread a map of Essos over the table. "The greater part of Valyria's fleet and armies are moving east, along the shores of Slavers' Bay, towards Ghiscar and Qarth. Given the distance, it is entirely possible that even as we speak, the Slaver Cities may be under siege or may have already fallen."

"That is no surprise." Pycelle said. "Prior to the Doom, Ghiscar was part of the Valyrian Freehold, and while not their first conquest outside of the Valyrian Peninsula, among their proudest. To the Valyrians, the conquest of Ghiscar held great significance as it demonstrated beyond all doubt their victory over their Ghiscari rivals."

"And Qarth?" Jon asked.

"To my knowledge," Pycelle said after a moment's thought. "Qarth was a tributary of the Freehold, allowing ships and men to pass through their lands and waters, and annually contributing great sums to the Freehold."

"Somehow," Stannis sourly said. "I wouldn't be surprised if the Qartheen might offer that arrangement, if only to avoid a war with the Freehold."

"Which isn't a good thing, as it would mean Valyria would have control over the trade routes leading to Asshai and Yi Ti." Robert growled. "Though…given the distance, there's nothing we can do about that. Gods damn it…gods damn those filthy dragonspawn…"

"As for the strike to the north," Varys resumed after a diffident cough. "Valyria has managed to gain Volantis' allegiance with surprising ease…or not, given the rulers of that city, the so-called 'Old Blood', prize their descent from the original Valyrian colonists and have slavishly modeled their government and society on that of the Freehold…anyway, more to the point, Volantis' allegiance allows Valyria indirect control of the mouths and the lower part of the Rhoyne."

"And…?" Jon pressed.

Varys blinked. "And from there," he continued. "My spies report Valyrian and Volantene ships and men are pushing north, along the Rhoyne, towards Dagger Lake. They also report that Volantis has been promised control of the river up until the lake, which will be placed under direct Valyrian rule."

Robert hummed while sitting back in his chair. "I imagine the other Free Cities aren't too happy about that." He said.

"Indeed not, Your Grace." Varys said. "Braavos is already attempting to broker an alliance among the other Free Cities, though I have reports that Lorath has declared neutrality, while both Norvos and Qohor are still engulfed in civil war."

"And what of Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh?" Stannis asked.

"They are receptive, though distrust among them of each other is proving…difficult, for Braavos to overcome." Varys said.

"You'd think with the threat of Valyria looming overhead they'd set those differences aside…" Robert growled.

"Indeed, Your Grace." Varys said. "But alas, I can only, and indeed, must only report the facts. And such are the facts."

Robert grunted in response before turning back to the map. Reaching forward, he traced the line of the Rhoyne north from Dagger Lake, and then swept his hand out over its tributaries. "I see what they're up to." He said darkly. "If Volantis and the Freehold succeed, then they will have control over the best and quickest way to move men and cargo north and south in Essos, and control over the caravan route running east and west across northern Essos."

"In short," Jon said. "They'll have control over the interior, and cripple the economies of the other Free Cities."

"It does seem that way, my lord." Varys agreed. "And while the other Free Cities have imposed an embargo on Volantis at present, said embargo would become meaningless if not outright self-destructive in the event of Valyrian and Volantene victory. The Valyrians and Volantes would retaliate in kind, and completely cut the other Free Cities off from trade with the east…"

"…and force them to choose between submission or bankruptcy." Littlefinger said with a shake of his head. "It's a diabolical strategy."

"Of course it is." Robert said. "What did you expect from greedy and honorless scum?"

"That said, were it not to our detriment in success," Stannis softly said. "It can be admired as a brilliant one, regardless."

Robert and a few others shot Stannis glances, but he simply ignored them. "And?" he asked instead. "Now that we know all this, what do we do about it?"

"We can't allow Valyria and Volantis to win." Robert said. "If they do, they'll be right on our doorstep within a generation. And back to the mad dragon's spawn…if they're still alive then, then that's when they might become useful for their kin. Hence the need to be rid of them now."

"Agreed," Stannis said. "That would buy us time, a generation or two, perhaps, before the dragonlords turn west. After all, Ghiscar, Qarth, and the Free Cities are one matter. The Dothraki are another."

Eyes turned back to the map, and then Robert nodded slowly, eyes fixed on a large area in the middle of Essos, marked as the Dothraki Sea. "Yes," he said. "The Dothraki might just tie the Valyrians down for quite a while. Even with dragons, going by how big that land of theirs is, and how fast they are said to be able to move…"

"The Valyrians will hunt them all down in the end." Stannis said. "But that just might buy us the time we need to find ways to even the odds with the Valyrians."

"What did you have in mind, Stannis?" Robert asked.

In response, Stannis turned to Pycelle. "You maesters are called the Knights of the Mind, aren't you?" he asked. "I think it's time we put that to the test."

"Yes…" Robert said with narrowed eyes and a slow nod. "I see what you mean, Stannis."

"Your Grace?" Pycelle asked quizzically. "I apologize, I'm not sure I quite understand…"

"Then let me make it clear." Stannis interrupted. "Send word to your kind in the Citadel. Valyria holds an edge against us in knowledge of the world in general, and in magic and dragons in particular. Put your heads to use, and find a way to negate the latter, and at least close the gap in the former."

"I couldn't have put it better myself." Robert said approvingly before turning to Pycelle with an expression that brooked no disagreement. "Make it so, Grand Maester. Or is it beyond your capabilities?"

"N-no, Your Grace, it will be done." Pycelle stammered out with a bow.

"Good."

"…if we're set on buying time to gather our strength," Jon said after some thought. "And to remove the difference in…ability, between the Seven Kingdoms and the Freehold, then I might have some ideas in that regard."

"Finally," Robert said with a jovial tone. "You're on the same page as we are. Speak up, Jon. Let's hear what you've got."

"First of all, don't place a price on the heads of the Targaryen children."

"What?"

"If we want to be rid of them, then it should be done subtly, and in ways that can't be traced back to us." Jon said. "Otherwise, we just might be drawing unwanted attention to ourselves."

"…yes…there is that." Robert conceded.

"Assassins, then?" Stannis said with distaste. "Not the most honorable means to use, but…needs must."

"We would still need to locate the children, however." Varys pointed out. "No point in sending out assassins, when we don't even know where to send them to. I'll have my spies and little birds double their watch for Viserys and Daenerys."

"Or, we could just hire the Faceless Men to do it." Littlefinger suggested.

"Your tone suggests you're not too keen on the idea, however." Jon said.

"We've just finished putting down the Greyjoy Rebellion, my lord." Littlefinger said. "And the Faceless Men charge their fees on how…important, or valuable their quarries are. The fee for killing a mere merchant prince of the Free Cities would be enough to hire and feed an army for a year. How much more for a prince and princess of the Targaryen line?"

"Their claims are null and void." Stannis growled.

"Practically, yes." Littlefinger agreed. "But just the fact that they have a claim in the first place makes all the difference. And indeed, it's why we're seeking to be rid of them, isn't it so, my prince?"

"…so it is."

"Find them first." Jon said firmly. "And then keep an eye on them, while we decide who we send and how we deal with them before they become a threat."

"It will be done, Lord Arryn." Varys said with a bow.

"Moving on," Jon said. "Another way to buy time for ourselves, and to turn away potential Valyrian belligerence from ourselves, would be a diplomatic mission to the east."

"Extend a hand of friendship and peace, while arming the other, is it?" Robert said sourly. "I'm not too keen on it, however…"

"To protect the Seven Kingdoms, and perhaps even end Valyria's power in the future," Jon said. "It's something that needs to be done, until we're ready."

"…true." Robert said. "But if so, then who shall lead this…mission…no, absolutely not."

Jon smiled. "You know as well as I do, Robert, that there's no one else you can trust to send into the dragon's den, and come out having deceived them into a sense of security." He said.

"Gods damn it, Jon." Robert growled. "You said it yourself, it's the dragon's den, and I'm not sending you into it. Not without an army and a fleet, and not without whatever craft the maesters cook up to remove the Valyrians' devilry and witchcraft."

"…a compromise, then?" Littlefinger suggested. "Instead of Valyria, the diplomatic mission could go to Volantis. Lord Arryn gets to speak with the Valyrians and their allies, and with it his chance to lull their perceptions, while not going so far into the dangers of the dragons' domain."

Robert scoffed. "Pretty words…don't think I can't see through them." He sneered. "No. I mean it, Jon. No. You will not be going east, and that is all I will say on the matter."

"Robert…"

"Speaking of going to Volantis, however," Varys diffidently began. "My little birds here in Westeros, and my spies in Essos have reported a disturbing trend developing."

"What trend?" Jon asked.

"Those who remained loyal to the former dynasty and were exiled to Essos," Varys answered. "And those who apparently remained loyal but bent knee to survive, are heading east and south, towards Volantis. My spies have yet to determine the details, but it seems…"

"They're rallying." Stannis finished with narrowed his eyes. "Could Viserys and Daenerys be in Volantis? Are we too late?"

"It is possible, my prince," Varys said. "Though as I said my spies are still ascertaining the truth. However, their other reports on this trend are even more disturbing, and again I have yet to find all the details. Even so, I pray they are wrong."

"And why is that?" Hoster asked.

"According to the spies which reported this," Varys said with an unusual expression of unease on his face. "They do not rally to one of the Targeryens of King's Landing. No, they rally to a Targaryen Dragonlord, one left behind in their homeland instead of accompanying their kin to Dragonstone before the Doom."

"No…"

"It can't be…"

"An actual Targaryen Dragonlord…"

As the Small Council devolved into exclamations of fear and disbelief, Robert stood silent, seething and grinding his teeth as he saw once more Rhaegar Targaryen's face, whether on the Trident in his draconic armor with dragons shaped from rubies, and at the tourney at Harrenhal, when he presented Lyanna with a crown of flowers. He remembered hearing of how Rhaegar had taken her away, and of the gruesome deaths of Rickard and Brandon Stark at the hands of the Mad King.

He remembered how he had longed to see Lyanna once more, how certain he was that with the Mad King and his thrice-cursed son and his spawn dead they would be together at last, only for Ned to return from the south with that casket made of weirwood, carved with the wolf's head of House Stark.

And now…

…this news from the east…

…of a Targaryen with the power to undo everything he had done to take away that which they did not deserve, and which even now rallied those despicable fools who would lick at dragon boots…

With a roar that could be heard across the Red Keep, Robert upended the Small Council table in his rage.

* * *

Waves crashed against sand and stone, seabirds mournfully crying out as they flew along the coast, and over the stony expanse of Sunspear. It hugged the coast, while spreading out into the desert beyond, and around the winding walls of the castle that shared its name, the twin towers of the Sun and the Spear stabbing high into the sky and casting long shadows behind.

In a chamber that overlooked the sea, Prince Doran Martell of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear sat on a chair, and looked out over the waves. He savored the crisp and salty scent of the sea, and then with a sigh, turned to where his brother stood, waiting for an answer.

"No matter what I say," Doran began. "Unless I actually place you in irons, you will still be on a ship headed for Volantis within a fortnight at most, won't you?"

"You know me well, brother." Prince Oberyn Martell said.

"Then why bother coming to me in the first place?"

"Courtesy, for one." Oberyn said with a shrug. "And for another thing, I am aware you have plans in motion. It's not my style, it takes too long and I get impatient too easily…but you _are_ my brother. We have different methods, but we both want the same thing."

"Do we?" Doran asked, again looking out over the sea.

"…would you truly let our sister's death, and those of her children, slide?" Oberyn growled, his voice dripping with hate. "I have no love for Rhaegar and his father, but Elia…Aegon and Rhaenys…"

"Arryn returned their bodies…"

"And we made peace over it, yes." Oberyn interrupted. "But only because peace was needed to survive then. Now…things are changing, and the time for our revenge is almost at hand. They say the gods grant men the right to vengeance, and if the Usurper and his pet dogs had the right to vengeance for Rhaegar's kidnapping of that northern whore, then I daresay we have the right to vengeance as well. For our sister, and her children!"

Doran sighed, and he turned back to Oberyn. "It's not that simple." He said.

Oberyn stepped closer. "Why not?" he asked.

"Valyria has returned." Doran replied. "You know our history."

"Yes…Princess Nymeria and her fleet of a thousand ships, fleeing Essos after Garrin the Great brought down the wrath of Valyria." Oberyn said. "And yet…when they came here, Valyria never followed."

"…they might have, in time." Doran said. "Dragonstone…Driftmark…and Claw Isle…they might have heralded what might have come in time, if not for the Doom. Or…did it?"

"Perhaps…" Oberyn conceded. "But things are different now."

"Is it?"

"Daenerys Targaryen."

Doran narrowed his eyes. "Explain." He said.

"We are descended from the Targaryens." Oberyn said. "I'm…uncertain, if it's something to be proud of, but it can be used. A bargaining chip, so to speak, with our distant kin across the sea. I know what you're heard, Doran. An actual Targaryen Dragonlord…the last was in the days of Aegon III, wasn't it?"

"Yes…" Doran said. "Aenar the Exile's kin, if the reports from my spies in Volantis are correct."

"You're not confident?"

"It might be useful…or it might not."

"It will be useful." Oberyn said with a smirk. "Have I ever told you how I can come and go from Old Volantis at my leisure?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Doran began to laugh. "Why am I not surprised?" he said. "Oh very well, if you want to go Volantis and see if we can get help in taking down the Usurper, then go. But, be careful: I already have enough on my plate dealing with the games of the lords of Westeros. Let's not get dragged into the intrigues and rivalries of the dragonlords of Valyria."

"Yes, yes, I know." Oberyn said. "I'm not stupid."

"No, you are not." Doran agreed. "But by your own admission, you are impatient. And I would add impulsive to that, as well."

"True," Oberyn admitted. "Though I prefer to describe myself as simply…living in the moment."

Doran snorted and then laughed. "Indeed," he said. "But, do not go just yet. As you say, I have plans. Plans that must now take into account the momentous changes of the world."

"What did you have in mind, Doran?" Oberyn asked.

Doran did not reply at once, and again looked out to sea. "Nymeria's mother is of the Old Blood of Volantis, isn't she?" he asked.

"…are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

Doran smiled, and threw a smug look at Oberyn. "We'll need to make an impression," he said. "Both to the Old Blood and this, Lord Freeholder Jaenera Targaryen. Nymeria Sand might not be too…impressive. _Princess_ Nymeria Martell, on the other hand…"

"…I don't know whether to be impressed by your planning to use my daughters, or to shout at you."

Doran smiled wider, and without another word, turned back to the sea.

* * *

A/N

I'm back.

This chapter should have been posted earlier today, but an exploding extension cord and multiple first and second-degree burns have caused a delay. We apologize for the inconvenience.

As you might expect, Robert and his Small Council aren't exactly excited at the prospect of an actual Targaryen dragonlord up and about. And also as you might expect, Oberyn's jumping at the chance of getting a really powerful ally to join in his vendetta against BLAST.


	9. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I do not own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Return of Valyria

Chapter 8

On the western shores of Westeros, where the region known to its denizens as the Westerlands met the Sunset Sea, there stands Casterly Rock. Though commonly known as an ancient castle that had been the seat of House Lannister for thousands of years, in truth the name was shared with that of the mountain. Also, the castle was not so much as built atop the mountain as many thought, as much as it was built _into_ the mountain.

Maesters have long waxed that Casterly Rock may originally have been little more than a gold mine (and indeed, is still a gold mine, the richest in all of the Seven Kingdoms), and that at some point in the past was turned into a final holdout for House Lannister, should their keep at Lannisport fall to an enemy. While this contradicted traditional tales and songs about the origins of House Lannister, that no evidence has ever been found that House Casterly of myth and legend ever existed lends credence to this theory, one which remains contested in the Citadel and beyond.

In any case, Casterly Rock was among the largest, most defensible, and without a doubt the richest stronghold in the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms. The entire mountain was wormed through with tunnels, passageways, halls and chambers. Not just the residences and fortifications of House Lannister, but also mineshafts and pits. Many had long since been abandoned, but more to the point the labyrinthine structure made for one daunting prospect before would-be attackers.

There was no telling whether or not some or the other tunnel, passageway, pit and mineshaft could be connected to the Lannisters' stronghold, or whether or not the Lannisters had means beyond that of the main gate – built into a gigantic cavern at the mountain's foot – to sortie from. To cover the whole mountain would require an army larger than any had ever existed, even more so as the castle's very nature gave a huge advantage to the defenders.

Even simply starving out the defenders was a difficult option at best. The scale of the underground fastness was such that that the Lannisters could have and had many and large storerooms at their disposal, enough to store preserved consumables for years. They had their own water supply as well, thanks to underground springs, and through hidden passageways on the seaward side and cunning construction in millennia past, secret docks on the Sunset Sea. Enough to host a fleet, and needing any would-be attackers to commit not just a vast army but an equally-vast fleet to truly threaten Casterly Rock.

And neither were dragons a guarantee of victory. Queen Visenya Targaryen herself had questioned dragons' ability to reduce Casterly Rock, one reason why the capture of King Loren I of the Rock had been so important in the wake of the Field of Fire.

In short, Casterly Rock was a lasting symbol of Lannister power and grandeur, an enduring and imposing landmark to the rest of the world.

And in his study deep beneath the mountain, Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Shield of Lannisport and Warden of the West, brooded. It was a rare moment that the dreaded Lion of the West would question his own past decisions, so rare as to be counted on one hand, and never since the death of his beloved wife, Joanna Lannister.

Indeed, it was precisely because of her that it was so rare. For none dared question Tywin save her, and only to her did he defer judgment and give concessions to. And ever since she had passed on, none could replace her, not Tywin's brothers, and not his children.

But now, the impossible had happened. For the first time since Joanna had died, Tywin was questioning his decisions.

And how could he not? The impossible had happened. Valyria had returned, and in hindsight, actions meant to demonstrate beyond all possible doubt Lannister power and might could instead bring about its doom.

Tywin remembered the old tales from the east, brought by traders and sung by bards and discussed in depth by maesters. And there were tales as well from the south, from Dorne and the women and children brought over the sea by Princess Nymeria.

Tales of how Garrin the Great had raised arms against the Eldest Daughter, and assembled the greatest host the world had ever seen. Such was the power and might of the Rhoynar that Valyria itself had trembled with fear, and the Eldest Daughter was driven down the Rhoyne, and how with the power of water magic no less than three dragonlords and their mounts had been pulled from the sky to drown in the waters below.

Or so it seemed. Valyria's wrath was terrible, and their retribution swift. Hundreds of dragons took to the skies from the topless towers of the Lands of the Long Summer, and turned the Rhoyne valley into a raging inferno. So fell Garrin the Great, his host, and the cities of the Rhoynar, save only those who followed Princess Nymeria into exile over the sea.

And now, it may be that such a fate would befall the Lannisters, and to whom Tywin had bound their fates to.

Tywin's thoughts were interrupted by a commotion outside his door, his guards arguing with an all-too-familiar voice, followed by the sounds of his study's door being forcibly opened. "You do that." Genna Lannister said to one of Tywin's guards. "But until he tells me to leave, I am going to see my brother, and none of you will keep me from him."

"I gave orders not to be disturbed." Tywin growled.

Genna scoffed as she closed the door behind her. "And since when did I become a servant to be ordered around?" she said. "I'm a Lannister, just like you. I can go anywhere I want in our home."

Tywin grunted as Genna walked over. "Well isn't this a rare sight?" she asked mockingly. "I haven't seen you like this in quite a while. Normally you're so quick and decisive. But now…"

Tywin ignored his sister, until she bent down to his eye level. "At the very least," she said. "If you're second-guessing yourself then I hope you've managed to think of alternatives to what you've done years ago. If not, then there's no point in crying over spilled milk."

"…I should have put the babe on his grandfather's throne." Tywin growled. "Kept his mother as regent."

"And yourself as hand." Genna said with a nod. "Yes, that would have been a viable alternative. And? Why did you choose otherwise?"

"It was necessary at the time." Tywin said. "The world had to be shown that treating our family as the Mad King did was not merely unacceptable, but fatally so. Furthermore, supporting Robert had the advantage that he was unmarried and of the same age as my daughter."

"So you removed rival claimants, and in such a way that none would consider defying your designs again."

"I do not need you to tell me that."

"Hmm…and…suppose you'd have chosen the alternative – no, don't give me that look you know as well as I do that given…different, circumstances, you would have chosen the alternative – do you really think Robert and his confederates would have accepted it?"

"The Vale and the Stormlands were spent." Tywin said. "The North and the Riverlands were also spent in part, whereas we and the Reach would have been fresh, even if Dorne and the Crownlands - in part - were spent. To be sure, the Greyjoys had thrown in their lot with the rebels by then, but against ourselves, the Redwynes, and the Targaryens they would have been no match. And Jon Arryn was – and is – no fool. In such a scenario, he'd have chosen to negotiate."

"And you think Robert and Stark would have listened?"

"Yes."

"And what would they have demanded?"

"A seat on the council at least." Tywin said. "Maybe more than one…Stark's sister returned…and possibly a dynastic marriage. The elder Targaryen girl might have made a promising match with Stark's son."

"And ourselves?"

"Viserys might have been a possible match for Cersei." Tywin growled. "And one of our cousins' children could have been matched to the Targaryen babe, though I imagine that fat man in Highgarden would fight to have his own daughter be matched to Rhaegar's child."

"I see."

"…none of this is really helpful in any way, of course."

"Of course not." Genna said dismissively. "What's done is done, and can't be undone. We're only men. No matter how much gold we have, no matter how great our fleet and army is, we're still men. Not gods…and I doubt even they could turn back time."

"Then what was the point of all this?" Tywin snarled at his sister.

Genna gave him a raised eyebrow. "You needed to get it off your back." She said. "And since you hadn't shared anything with Kevan or Gerion – and speaking of Gerion you could have been more diplomatic when you forbade him from travelling to Essos not that I disagree of course – I might as well pry it out of you."

"…you go too far."

"Maybe," Genna said with a shrug. "But even if you don't speak to me for another year, then so be it. I care for you Tywin, and you know that. We all do. That's why I had to do this."

Tywin was silent for a few moments, and then he snorted. "Leave me." He said with a wave of his hand, but with no venom and only grudging and veiled gratitude in his voice and the set of his shoulders.

Genna gave a small curtsy. "As you wish." She said, before turning away. "Before I leave though, I'm glad to see you're at least taking your meals in here."

Tywin only grunted in reply, and without another word Genna left. For some time, Tywin sat silent, and then he turned towards the door. "Get in here, Gerion." He snapped.

The door opened and Gerion Lannister sheepishly entered. "How'd you know I was there?" he asked while closing the door behind him.

"…I can see where Tyrion's been getting his bad habits from."

Gerion gave a smile. "Well, you know me…" he said.

"Indeed I do." Tywin snapped.

Gerion just smiled wider, and rubbed the back of his head. "Well?" Tywin continued. "You're usually so optimistic, so start talking."

"Despite how it looks," Gerion began. "Maybe this whole mess we're in isn't as bad as it seems."

"Really? What makes you think that?"

"Think about it." Gerion said with a shrug. "To be sure, the Targaryens were among the Forty Families of Valyria, but they were among the least powerful, weren't they? What's more, by the time of Robert's Rebellion, they'd long since lost their dragons, and for all that Jaeherys and his son were obsessed with the…purity, of their blood, the Targaryens had long been of mixed blood. Ever since Viserys I, if I remember right."

"So you think because the Targaryens had lost their dragons and were no longer of purely Valyrian stock, the other Valyrians wouldn't care about them."

"Well, they have to save face, somehow." Gerion said. "They'd probably ask for Dragonstone and its nearby islands back."

"Three islands in exchange for leaving the rest of the continent alone." Tywin mused. "Not a bad deal…do you really think Robert will go for it?"

"If that happens, we'll just have to make him, won't we?"

Tywin snorted. "Maybe," he said. "Though there's just one complication."

"What's that?"

"Pycelle's sent word from King's Landing." Tywin said. "Apparently, Varys' spies have noticed that loyalists both exiled and otherwise are flocking to Volantis by the thousand."

"Viserys and his sister are there?" Gerion asked.

"No." Tywin said. "Worse: Aenar the Exile's sister is there. And she is the Lord Freeholder of House Targaryen."

"…that could be a problem."

* * *

Fires burned unchecked across the Dothraki Sea. The grasses of the vast steppes made for ready fuel, fanned by the powerful breezes that swept regularly across the great expanse that spanned the continent from the Rhoyne to the Bone Mountains.

Once, this region had been home to cities, towns and villages, and people numbering in the tens of millions. Great herds had migrated regularly across the steppes, while immense farms had been fed by the waters of the Sarne and its tributaries.

This was the Cradle of Civilization, where the first cities arose, where the wheel, law, and the very ideas of government and kingship were born. This was the Realm of Sarnor, divided into patchworks of city-states and principalities nominally united under the High King of Sarnor.

Once, Sarnor had been an enemy of Valyria. During the Second War of the Dragon and the Harpy, Sarnori cataphracts and scythed chariots had been the terror of the Lands of the Long Summer, the Valyrian light cavalry and their legions – made in the image of the formidable lockstep legions of Old Ghis – frequently being routed by the iron-clad and lance-bearing Tall Men of the Sarne.

But the Valyrians had learned, and by the end of that war fielded cataphracts of their own. And over the course of the Third and Fourth Wars of the Dragon and the Harpy, the Realm of Sarnor had become the subjects of the Valyrian Freehold, and come the Fifth War between the Dragon and the Harpy, Valyrian and Sarnori cataphracts had been the hammer which had smashed the lockstep legions against the anvil of the Valyrian legions.

Then came the Doom, and with it the Realm of Sarnor had fallen into infighting. An invitation too great to pass up for the Dothraki hordes, who crossing the Bone Mountains laid waste to the Realm of Sarnor. Too late did the Tall Men unite against the threat, and now all that was left of their cities and principalities were green mounds and ruins in the grass, slowly crumbling away.

But while not all that had been lost could be brought back, much could be, and the Dothraki stood in their way. So dragonriders hunted in the skies above, laying waste to any _khalasar_ that crossed their paths. Tens of thousands had already perished in multicolored flame, their bones crumbling amidst the ash of burned grass, not just men and horses, but women and children as well.

And those were the lucky ones. Slavers accompanied by sellswords from the Rhoyne followed in the wake of the dragons, and wherever they met, the dragonriders would leave once a _khalasar_ had been broken, leaving the slavers to take what was left in great lines of chained captives back to the Rhoyne, or south, over the Painted Mountains and into the Lands of the Long Summer.

But the Dothraki Sea was vast. So vast that even with hundreds of dragons and dozens of slaver bands sweeping its southern and western reaches, great expanses of steppe could be beyond their sight. And through those vengeful _khalasars_ swept west and south, and over the Rhoyne and the Painted Mountains alike.

One such _khalasar_ was now laying waste to towns and villages newly submitted to the Volantene banner, to the south of Dagger Lake. With the main host of Volantis and Valyria in the theater located north, fighting to secure the shores and waters of the lake, the commanders had dispatched a thousand Volantenes and two thousand Valyrian auxiliaries to find and crush the _khalasar_ , under the overall command of the Dragonlord Vimon Gonaenor.

For days they marched south, light cavalry scouting ahead and to their flanks, until they finally found what they were looking for. But as the Volantenes and Valyrians marched to the battlefield, Vimon flew ahead, and was caught by surprise.

The Dothraki were already engaged in battle, not with Volantenes or Valyrians, but what appeared to be Andals, if only due to their cavalry using the cylindrical helms known to be favored by Andal knights. And they were winning.

Realizing that there was more to this than met the eye, Vimon turned and flew back to his host, and to give new orders based on how the battle seemed to be going.

* * *

The Golden Company was engaged in battle. Nine thousand men formed a solid and slowly-advancing mass of heavy infantry that met the Dothraki head-on. Pikes and heater shields faced the Dothraki, while behind them archers and crossbowmen reaped a heavy toll on the unarmored barbarians.

And while the Dothraki were giving the Golden Company a fight, the superior discipline and equipment of the sellswords meant that their losses were far less.

On the flanks, the Golden Company's heavy cavalry were also fighting. At the start of the battle, the Dothraki had sought to flank the Golden Company, but the knights of the latter had met the Dothraki and kept them from flanking the Golden Company's formation.

Lancers had crushed the front of the Dothraki wings, and breaking their momentum pinned them in a brutal melee where scimitars clashed with maces, warhammers, knightly swords and longswords. Much like with their infantry, the Golden Company's superior discipline and equipment allowed them to inflict losses far greater than their own.

Indeed, the only thing going for the Dothraki was their fighting spirit, the horsemen from the east preferring to die fighting than to turn tail and run, or be taken captive and sold into slavery. Even worse, the Golden Company had a five to one advantage in numbers, and within an hour had rolled back the _khalasar_ 's flanks and were now fighting them on three sides.

Even then, the Dothraki refused to break…

…and then with a roar, a black and yellow dragon descended from the skies. Black flames roared out of its maw, and reduced men into ash by the hundreds.

The Dothraki finally broke. It was one thing to fight and die against men, there was honor there and a fair chance, but against a monster that was magic and flame made flesh, there was no honor in standing to fight. Only death.

But neither the Golden Company nor the dragonlord were willing to allow the Dothraki to escape, and over the following hours hunted them to death along the hills of the Rhoyne Valley. By then, the women and children of the _khalasar_ had been surrounded by the Valyrians and Volantenes, and while the Golden Company themselves had no love for the fate that awaited them to the south, such was the way of things in Essos.

And one did not succeed in Essos without accepting such a fact.

And as the Golden Company and the Valyrians and Volantenes uneasily faced each other, a dragon descended from the skies, and landed between the two armies. The dragonlord jumped down from his mount, even as Jon Connington and Captain-General Myles Toyne rode forward accompanied by several knights, under the flapping white banner of truce and parley.

It was Jon Connington who spoke first, as he descended from his horse, and in High Valyrian no less. "Greetings, Dragonlord." He said. "My name is Jon Connington."

"You speak my people's language well." The dragonlord responded, sounding impressed. "I am Vimon of House Gonaenor, a Dragonlord of the Valyrian Freehold."

"I am honored to meet you, my lord." Jon said. "In Westeros, dragonriders had been a thing of legend for over a century."

"Indeed," Vimon said with narrowed eyes. "You are a long way from home."

Jon briefly looked down, fists clenched as he remembered with no small amount of self-loathing the reason why he had been exiled to Essos. And what it had brought about.

"Home…is no longer a place I have in." Jon finally said. "Not since those who have forgotten everything the dragons have done for us have usurped their throne."

"…is that why you fly dragon banners?"

Jon briefly looked behind him, and at the sable and red of House Targaryen above the Golden Company. And then he looked back at Vimon. "Yes." He said.

"Sellswords…or should I say exiles, doing what they must to survive." Vimon said.

"Yes."

Vimon paced for a few moments. "What do you want, Jon Connington?" he finally asked.

"We wish to join you."

"The Freehold is not in the business of hiring sellswords to fight her wars." Vimon said firmly, and meeting Jon's eyes. Jon said nothing, only meeting the dragonlord's violet gaze, his heart clenching as he remembered Rhaegar's own violet gaze.

"But Volantis has different policies." Vimon said with a nod. "If you wish to join our campaign, then you must speak with them."

"Thank you for such advice, my lord." Jon said with a nod.

Vimon nodded back before pacing for a few more moments. "Just one more question," he said. "What exactly is your goal here, Jon Connington? If you wish to return home, then it is quite likely we will be unable to help you."

"Not even for the sake of kin?"

"…you speak of the Targaryens?" Vimon asked.

"Indeed I do." Jon said, before beckoning to his squire, who now removed his helmet to reveal his own gold-silver hair and violet eyes. "I speak of my ward, the true heir to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms, Aegon Targaryen."

"…quite the claim." Vimon said. "You are prepared to do what you must to prove it?"

Jon blinked, and fighting down the outrage that Aegon's legitimacy was in question, narrowed his eyes at the dragonlord. "I am." He said.

"Is that so?" Vimon asked, amused. "Very well, I shall bring word to my superiors. March north, towards Dagger Lake. Expect to meet with the Volantenes with regard to your employment under our banner. And prepare your ward to have his claim be tested."

And without further word, Vimon returned to and mounted his dragon, flying back into the sky. "Well," Miles said, looking to the distance as Valyrians and Volantenes began forcing their captives to march towards the river. "That could have gone better or worse."

* * *

Ships burned on the waters of Dagger Lake, whether by dragonfire or from boarding action by the Volantene and Valyrian fleets. More smoke rose from the fish and refuse-stinking towns and villages on the shores of the lake, the local pirate nations refusing to submit to the Valyrian and Volantene yoke.

Though perhaps in some ways that was a blessing in disguise. To the Volantenes' surprise, the Valyrians showed no leniency with regard to piracy, branding those who practiced it as enemies of civilization, for whom even slavery was too lenient, and prescribing death and death alone for such a crime.

Jaenera watched with distaste as men and women were marched in chains between lines of heavily-armored legionaries towards the waiting gallows. "A ghastly sight, Lord Freeholder." One of her subordinates remarked.

"Yes," Jaenera agreed. "Though I completely agree. You must cut out rot, and quickly, before it can spread. And there are few things more rotten than pirates."

"As you say, Lord Freeholder."

The dragonlords watched in silence as men and women were marched up to the gallows, and had nooses placed around their necks. And then with a pull of a lever, they dropped, and once their deaths had been made certain, the corpses were untied, and then piled high on corpse carts to be taken away for burial.

Jaenera wrinkled her nose. "Dead and rotting flesh alongside spoiling fish and moldering wood and refuse…" she said before walking away. "This place is a dump."

"That may be so, Lord Freeholder." Her subordinate said while walking to keep up with his superior. "But it is one we must subjugate before we can proceed further upriver towards Norvos and Qohor."

"Hmm…true…" Jaenera agreed. "Not that it really changes anything. Also…Norvos and Qohor…I won't dispute their wealth, nor their strategic positions along the northern caravan route, but still. Those cities were founded and remain ruled by theocratic religious fanatics. I do not have high expectations of them."

Her subordinate didn't know what to make of that, though both he and Jaenera came to a halt as a runner arrived. "Lord Freeholder Targaryen," the man said with a salute, a salute returned by both Jaenera and her subordinate. "A message from command."

"I receive the message." Jaenera said, taking the scroll and unsealing it quickly read what was written. And as she read, her eyes widened before she looked to the runner. "Where is Theater Command?"

"Further south, at the town of Gor Dyn." The runner replied, and Jaenera swept past him.

"Good," she said. "I can get there within an hour. Lucas, tell Vilar he's in command of the wing until I get back. There is something I must attend to."

"Yes, Lord Freeholder."

Lucas Cellaelis accompanied Jaenera to where the dragons were resting, and Aelarys was there, waiting for his rider. He had sensed his rider's thoughts through their bond, and so had come forward in anticipation of her coming. "If I may ask," Lucas began. "How long until we can expect you to return?"

"Hopefully, not long." Jaenera said. "I just need to confirm a few things with command. And once they've been confirmed, I can just wait for them to come to me."

" _Them_ , Lord Freeholder?"

"Yes." Jaenera said, ignoring her subordinate's confused expression. "Let's go, Aelarys."

Lucas hurriedly stepped back as Aelarys spread his wings, and then ascended into the sky. His own dragon stomped over, and nuzzling Lucas had the dragonlord patting his own dragon's snout.

* * *

A/N

I'm back! Did you actually think this was dead?

Aww, poor Tywin finally realizes just how deep in shit he and his family is. And the worst part is it could all have been avoided if he wasn't so damn greedy, and he knows it. Sucks to be him.


	10. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I do not own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Return of Valyria

Chapter 9

In the region of Westeros known to its denizens as the Reach, amidst the green hills and fields and on the banks of the Mander, there stands Highgarden. An ancient castle that goes back into the days of myth and legend, it is without a doubt the most beautiful out of all the homes of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.

Once, it had been the seat of House Gardener, Kings of the Reach in times past, from the days of legend to the coming of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, Rhaenys and Visenya, from the depths of the sea on wings of fire. Then it became the seat of House Tyrell, Lords Paramount of the Mander, High Marshalls of the Reach.

A large castle that sprawls out over the surrounding hills and fields along the flowing waters of the Mander, Highgarden was built as much for comfort and beauty as it was for defense. Three rings of white stone around a collection of square forts and towers all built out of the same white stone, the space in between was filled not with murky and stinking water, but briars of flowering vines and bushes, orchards of fruiting trees, stables for the finest horses in all of Westeros, even ponds, streams, and waterfalls fed by the waters of the Mander, piped in through an elegant and cunning construction of lead tubes.

Along the river there were quays for barges and riverboats, and it was not uncommon for the denizens of the castle to go out and spend their days in the warm sunlight on the waters of the Mander, feasting on fruit, bread, and meat to the music of pipers, fiddlers, and singers. Indeed, it was for these reasons that many claimed that Highgarden was a castle in name only, for all that its walls and towers were high and strong, held by the hundreds if not thousands of household guards and knights sworn to House Tyrell.

But to such claims the Tyrells merely laughed, and offered invitations to feast and drink with them at the table. For the Tyrells could afford to feast their rivals and enemies in their own halls, or to lavish their home's beauty and comfort, their true strength lying not in Highgarden, but in what lay around it.

The Reach was a rich and fertile land, blessed with good weather all year round and plentiful water from the Mander and its tributaries. It lent itself well to farming and pasturing, and put forth a bounty of food that allowed families that dwelt upon the land to grow large, and still there was plenty to send abroad, to feed the families and lords of less fortunate lands, and in return gold flowed back to the Reach and to House Tyrell.

That was their greatest strength. That was the true strength of House Tyrell. There's was the food that fed much of the Seven Kingdoms, the food that gave them gold surpassed only by the Lannisters and _only_ because of their possession of the continent's richest gold mines, and there's was the food that allowed them to become the most populous of the Seven Kingdoms.

Populace that allowed them to field the largest army out of any of the Seven Kingdoms, up to a hundred thousand swords if need be, including the finest cavalry on the continent. And the largest fleet as well, sailing under the banners of House Redwyne of the Arbor, sworn vassals of House Tyrell.

Highgarden was beautiful, the most beautiful out of any the castles of the Great Houses, and its lords an easygoing and gregarious lot. But challenge them at your own peril, and face backbreaking hunger long before the lances of their knights and the swords of their men-at-arms would have a chance to cut you down.

And on this day, in the heart of Highgarden in one of its many ponds, its members gathered in an outdoor lounge. Set in the middle of the pond, it was connected to the shore by a narrow causeway with a paved path on top, and the lounge sheltered from the Sun by a canopy of white stone. Slender pillars of matching stone held up the canopy, vines spiraling up the stone and blooming with blushing flowers.

A table was in the middle of the lounge, on which was set a feast. There was freshly-baked bread, still hot from the oven, freshly-picked fruits speckled with clear water washed from the Mander, there was steaming soups and sauces of various kinds, and roasted fowl fresh off the spit. There was wine, beer, and water, all to sate whatever appetites those at the table might have.

And Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, High Marshall of the Reach, Defender of the Marches, and Warden of the South, had such an appetite. Joining him at the table was his wife Alerie, his mother Olenna, and his eldest child and heir, Willas. They ate more sedately but with no less gusto, servants silently standing nearby to attend to any need they might have.

Mace finished off a leg of partridge, and washing it down with Arbor Gold, gestured for a servant to bring him water to rinse his hands in, and a clean cloth to wipe them dry with. A servant obliged, even as another refilled his goblet. "My thanks, my good man." The lord graciously said even as he took a drink of wine before nodding in satisfaction. "Now that we have been fed and watered, perhaps we should get down to business."

The rest of his family finished whatever they were eating at that moment, Mace giving them time to freshen up before continuing. "I received a missive from King's Landing the other day." He said. "It was a long and tiresome thing, filled with the usual pap and platitudes, but the gist of it was that that old man Jon Arryn wanted to ask for my dear Margaery's hand for Lord Baratheon."

" _Renly_ Baratheon?" Alerie asked.

"Yes, Renly." Mace confirmed.

"It's not a bad match." Willas mused. "He is Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. It would tie us to the Baratheon Dynasty, further closing wounds leftover from the rebellion, and would secure our borders to the east."

"Yes," Mace said with satisfaction, and swirling the wine in his goblet. "Renly's pedigree is beyond question, and it would give us an 'in' to the court at King's Landing, and other places beside where we are suspect for our past allegiances. The offered dowry was quite generous too."

Mace paused and took a drink, and set his goblet down firmly. "I refused, of course." He said with a smile.

There was a moment of utter silence, and then Olenna burst out laughing. "And why would you do such a thing?" she asked archly. "An opportunity such as that…why in the names of all the gods both old and new would you pass it up?"

"You have all heard the news from the east, and know it to be true." Mace grandly said. "Legend has become reality, and now casts its shadow and gaze over the whole known world."

"And…?" Olenna prompted.

"I will not see all our family has built for the past three centuries be reduced to ash." Mace said, his face and voice uncharacteristically serious, a rare moment when the High Marshall of the Reach set aside his façade of simple-minded hedonism and ambition, and showed who he truly was. "I will not see all of you dead by dragonfire."

"…loyalists are gathering at Volantis." Willas conceded. "And there are whispers too, of a Targaryen Dragonlord flying with their kin in the skies of Essos, fighting to rebuild the Freehold."

"Sooner or later the dragons will turn their eyes to the west." Mace said with a nod. "I know the tale of Garrin the Great. And I have no doubt the Usurper and his confederates will suffer the same fate come sooner or later. But when that time comes, we will not burn with them. On the contrary, we shall take root among the ashes, and grow stronger than ever before."

Olenna rolled her eyes. "How very poetic," she sarcastically remarked. "The Usurper and his minder will not be pleased at your refusal."

"What does it matter?" Mace scoffed. "He will not start a war over a refused betrothal. And even if he would, Jon Arryn would not allow it. And neither would Stark."

"And Tully and Lannister?" Olenna asked.

"Tully might support the Usurper." Mace admitted. "Hoster can hide behind his house's words as much as he wants, but he deceives no one but himself. He is just ambitious as ourselves and that damned Tywin Lannister."

"And the Lannisters?" Olenna asked while taking a drink.

"A pox of Tywin Lannister and his heavy-handed… _obsession_ , to prove himself the mightiest out of us all!" Mace spat with rare anger. "That man would, no, has already brought down the dragons' wrath on the Seven Kingdoms. There is no stopping it. Only waiting for the storm to break, for the dragons to descend on wings of fire, and hope to survive their wrath."

"So you've said." Olenna said with a nod before narrowing her eyes. "But it doesn't really answer my question: between the Usurper, Tully, and the Lannisters, there may be war for refusing Jon Arryn's offer."

"So be it." Mace said. "We have the largest fleet and army in the Seven Kingdoms. And with the Lannister Fleet still in ruins, only Stannis Baratheon and his Royal Fleet can oppose us at sea. Your nephew should be more than capable of handling him."

"Will our army be enough to take on the combined might of the rest of the Seven Kingdoms?" Willas worriedly said. "Stark and Arryn might oppose war, but if it erupts, then they will side with the Usurper regardless."

"True…but we will not be alone." Mace pointed out. "Dorne would stand with us, simmering with hate and the desire for vengeance against Tywin Lannister as they have been for nearly a decade now. That adds at least twenty thousand swords to our banner."

"…will that be enough?"

Mace was silent for a moment, and then he smiled. "It should be." He said. "Not to win, but to _not lose_."

"I've never heard of wars being won by not losing." Olenna dryly remarked.

"Perhaps…but these are different times." Mace said with a smile. "You see, if such should happen, then we show our value as _allies_ to potential friends in the east. Especially since I've heard that Prince Oberyn has recently set out for Volantis himself."

"…I see." Olenna said with narrowed eyes. "So that's how it is."

"The Usurper and his dogs will come for us." Mace continued. "And so we offer them as sacrifices to the dragons."

"Will the Martells vouch for us, though?" Willas worriedly asked.

Mace gave a dismissive wave. "Our actions will vouch for us." He said. "But I suppose it would do to be prudent. And for that reason, I have offered your brother's hand to Prince Doran's eldest child and heir."

"…Arianne Martell?" Willas breathed, and Olenna laughed.

"My son, you surprise me today." She said with evident glee. "Yes, I doubt the Martells would pass up this opportunity to have an ally outside of their deserts."

"True…" Willas thoughtfully said. "Unlike Jon Arryn's past proposal to marry Princess Arianne to Edmure Tully, the princess would not have to give up her inheritance and title, as Garlan would be her consort, and not the other way around."

"And would gain for himself the royal title of 'prince' in the process." Olenna said with a nod.

"And cement an alliance between them and us." Mace said. "And through them, a dynastic link, no matter how tenuous, to House Targaryen."

"And another means with which to shield ourselves from the coming wrath." Olenna said with another nod.

"Precisely." Mace said with a beaming smile, raising his goblet and taking a drink. "Though, this is all largely academic. As I've said before, it's very unlikely war will erupt. Jon Arryn won't stand for it. Not that it will stop me from continuing to forge an alliance with the Martells, of course. As I've also said before, it is…inevitable, for the dragons to turn west. And we must make what preparations we can for their coming."

Still smiling, Mace had his goblet refilled, and took a deep drink of Arbor Gold.

* * *

Viserys sat in his cabin aboard the Myrish ship _Sickle Stars_ as they sailed across the waters of the Summer Sea, on a roundabout route to the city of Volantis. With the ongoing embargo against Volantis and Valyria by the western Free Cities, they needed to avoid patrols from Tyrosh and Lys…as well as from Myr as well.

It was, after all, a complete secret that Myr was plotting to turn on its allies, and sell them out to the Freehold and the Volantenes in exchange for their favor in the future. Known only to a number of magisters, should they be caught trying to break the embargo by Myrish ships…well, at best, they would be forced to turn back. At worst…

…Viserys didn't want to think about. And it was galling to think that he, the heir to the Iron Throne, would have to fear to such an extent, and not for the first time he cursed the Usurper and his confederates for taking away his family's possessions and forcing them into exile as beggars, to say nothing of that northern whore who had seduced his brother Rhaegar and so led them to ruin.

That said, perhaps those worries need not be needed now.

Initially sailing south supposedly for the Summer Islands, they'd then turned north and east towards Volantis. After several days at sea, they encountered Volantene patrols, and who while initially suspicious, had turned respectful once they realized _who_ the Myrish were providing transportation for.

That had been a rare moment of gratification…

"Vis! Vis!" Daenerys Targaryen shouted as she burst into Viserys' cabin, shouting and gesturing excitedly. "Come and look! Come and look!"

Viserys grit his teeth and forced his irritation back under control, unwilling to lash out at his sister – his only family (the rumors of a Targaryen Dragonlord in Volantis notwithstanding) left – for disturbing his contemplations. "What is it, Dany?" Viserys asked, getting up and walking closer. "Look at what?"

Daenerys responded by grabbing Viserys and pulling him along, excitedly gesturing as she went. "Come and see!" she excitedly said.

Viserys sighed and obliged his sister, letting him drag him up and out onto the deck, where she pointed up at the sky. "Dragons!" she shouted.

Viserys saw and stared. Daenerys was right. There were dragons.

Three of them, a patrol from Valyria far to the east, or more likely from Volantis, from where they conducted their plans to rebuild the Freehold. They flew through the skies above, wings seemingly beating in a leisurely manner, as though to allow their riders all the time they needed to view their surroundings for any threats.

How else could Daenerys have the time to run down to his cabin, and then back out again to see, if they had been in a hurry?

The dragons flew by, many of the crew also looking and gesturing and murmuring among themselves at the sight of the dragons in the sky. And as he watched and saw them fly amidst the clouds, Viserys felt shame at what their family had become.

Once, they too had ridden among the clouds. They too had soared on wings of fire, above the lands and waters below.

Compared to that…what was losing the Seven Kingdoms?

 _How far have we fallen?_

* * *

The Golden Company's encampment along the banks of the Rhoyne bustled with men at work. This wasn't an unusual sight, of course. Unlike some other Free Companies, the Golden Company, while allowing its members their luxuries, also demanded they maintain the highest possible standards with regard to weapons, armor, equipment, horses, skill and tactics, among other things.

And the Golden Company had already struck a deal with the Volantenes, to fight alongside them and the Valyrian Freehold against the Norvoshi. In exchange, the Golden Company would be paid their usual fee, and would be guaranteed Volantis' good word with regard to future developments once Norvos had been brought to heel.

Jon Connington hurried through the camp, accompanied by Aegon and a number of other knights. All of them were exiles too, cast out of the Seven Kingdoms for refusing to bend knee to the Usurper and his ilk, and left to fend for themselves.

But now…

…soon…

…justice would be served.

"DRAGON!" the shout came from the lookouts even as Jon and his companions arrived at the space allotted for landings. Nearby were a number of Volantene soldiers, identifiable with the brigandines and Rhoynar helmets they wore, along with Valyrian legionaries, distinct in their hauberks and mailed and guarded caps.

Eyes turned to the direction the lookouts pointed to, and there it was. A dragon, winging its way towards them. Sunlight flashed off scales the color of steel, though the dragon's horns, crest, and wings were a deep, rich blue.

Powerful gusts were kicked up as the dragon descended and used its wings to slow itself down, and it roared once as it landed, and then growled as it regarded its surroundings. The rider loudly said soothing words in High Valyrian, though the accent…

" _So that's how High Valyrian is **supposed** to sound like._" Jon thought.

Then he drew himself up, as the dragonlord dismounted, and patting her dragon, approached. As she came closer, she lifted her hands and took off her helmet…

…audible gasps could be heard from Jon's companions…and from Jon himself. For it was as if a goddess had appeared before them.

They'd seen other Valyrians before, and they looked no different from others of strong Valyrian descent, like many of the Old Blood of Volantis, or the people of Lys. And while they'd met another dragonlord before, that dragonlord hadn't taken off his helmet before them.

Jon remembered well the sad beauty of Queen Rhaella, or the aged but still beautiful countenances of her aunts. And he remembered Rhaegar too, his Silver Prince, who he had failed at the Bells, and who had fallen at the Trident.

But now…compared to the dragonlord which stood before them…

Her hair truly looked as though it had been spun from the finest white gold, and shone with such vibrant color that Jon had never thought possible. Her skin was like alabaster, and her eyes shone with inner afire and were as clear and sharp as jewels…

Jon remembered how the people of Dragonstone had regarded their overlords as gods in times past, and had thought he understood whenever he remembered his Silver Prince…

…but now…now he realized he had never truly understood. Only now when he stood before a dragonlord as they had been at the height of the Valyrian Freehold did he truly understand why her kind had at times been seen as gods or akin to them.

"I am Lord Freehold Jaenera Targaryen." The dragonlord introduced herself, and swept them with her eyes. "And I have been told that you, the members of the delegation sent to greet me on my arrival, were all exiles. Exiled, for refusing to abandon your oaths to my brother's descendants, and to bend knee to the one who usurped their throne. And for that, I honor you."

Closing her eyes, the dragonlord gave an elegant bow of respect, and causing the knights present to stutter out modest thanks and to give sheepish bows of their own. And then Jaenera was rising, and regarded Aegon with her sharp, amethyst gaze.

"I have also been told," she began. "That you bring one who claims to be my distant nephew."

"…we do." Jon said, and motioning Aegon forward. "This is Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Elia, true heir to the Iron Throne."

"…we shall see." Jaenera said before gesturing to the nearest legionaries, and barking orders in High Valyrian. " _Bring me the chest on my saddle, and get me a sacrifice!_ "

Jon blinked at the last part, and then paled as minutes later, he saw a tightly bound Dothraki male being brought forward and forced to his knees. He remembered the stories, of how Valyrian magic was rooted in fire and blood.

 _Don't tell me she's…?_

* * *

The Valyrian legionaries brought Jaenera's chest to her, and she slid her finger on the bladed edge above the lock. Blood hissed and boiled on glyphs carved into the metal, and with a click the lock disengaged. Opening the chest, she reached into its silk and velvet-lined interior, and withdraw a narrow and sharp-edged shard of obsidian: a glass candle.

Taken from the depths of the Fourteen Flames, bathed in the blood of sacrifices and remade in dragonfire to songs of magic sung in the old tongue, it allowed for the reshaping of reality, the recreation of miracles, and to bend the rules of the world to one's will…all for a fair and reasonable price, of course. And this time, the price would have to be paid in blood and life, for to ascertain this child's claim, Jaenera would need to pierce the veil for a time.

" _So be it._ " Jaenera thought. " _If I can prove it to be true…that dear Aenar's blood still exists in this world…I would spill as much blood as I need._ "

Holding the glass candle in one hand, she slit the Dothraki's carotid with an obsidian dagger, and taking her bloody hand imbibed the sacrifice's blood. At the same time, she slit her fingers on the glass candle's edges, and causing the obsidian to begin to glow a shimmering, emerald green.

And then she offered it to Aegon. "Prove it." She said. "Prove you are blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, soul of my soul. Prove that you are of us, the Targaryens of the August Forty, of Those of the Azure Sky."

Aegon hesitated, and then looking at a troubled and torn-looking Jon Connington, back to Jaenera. She just stared at him, her face carefully neutral, and then reaching forward, Aegon slit his fingers on the glass candle's edges.

An inky cloud of black erupted and swirled around the glass candle, as Jaenera began to chant in the old tongue. Spoken in times long before the rise of the Freehold, now it was known only to the loremasters, and to the sorcerers, and never written down, instead taught by word of mouth from master to student, from parent to child, and from brother to sister. A harsh and guttural tongue, it hurt to speak, but it reverberated with every syllable shaking the surrounding air, and causing the Andals to look worriedly around them.

" _By the power of my blood,_ " Jaenera chanted while placing a hand, claw-like, on the Dothraki's head. " _Fueled by this paltry sacrifice, I split the veil and reach forth into the realms beyond. With the blood of the child as an anchor, I reach that which I seek, and pull them back once more into the realms of the living. So I say, and so it shall be!_ "

That was all magic really was, to be honest. Bending reality to one's will in defiance of the rules of the world, with words shaping and giving form to one's will which in turn drives the power to make miracles reality and have them _be_.

The glass candle blazed bright with emerald light, the clouds of inky black exploding away as an oppressive feeling crushed the surrounding area, the air stinking with the sharp stink of iron. The Dorthraki sacrifice screamed as his scalp burned at Jaenera's touch, and the blood spilling from his neck boiled away, and indeed, continued to boil away as it leaked out, fueling Jaenera's spell.

Amorphous forms swirled out of the glass candle, the light dimming as they emerged into reality, and Jaenera let go of her sacrifice. Clouds of inky black once more shrouded the glow of the glass candle, as the forms which had emerged from it took shape and form, becoming ever clearer and more defined, more _real_ , if not and never completely so.

And Jon Connington sank to his knees, tears falling from his eyes, as he saw once more his Silver Prince, standing before him.

"Rhaegar Targaryen, I presume." Jaenera asked.

The shade of what had once been Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone stared at Jaenera. "Yes...yes..." the shade answered, softly at first, then growing stronger and louder as memories of what had once been reasserted themselves. "I was...I am...Rhaegar Targaryen...Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms...Prince of Dragonstone...who are you? What are you?"

Jaenera ignored him, and walked over to the cowering shade of what had once been Princess Elia Targaryen nee Martell. As she walked closer, the hand holding the glass candle dropped, the clouds of inky black trailing behind it through the air, drifting lazily before vanishing. Nearby, the Dothraki sacrifice heaved heavy breaths as blood trickled out of his slit artery, blood which boiled away moments after escaping his body, consumed by the glass candle to keep the veil torn and the shades of the dead in the world.

"Elia...Elia...niece...calm yourself...the nightmare is over...rest you already have..." Jaenera gently said as she knelt down next to the shade, and patted it on the back. "But I need you to focus for a bit...for your son's sake, if nothing else."

"My...son...my son..." Elia gasped, her face twisting with grief and horror as she clutched her head. "That...monster...he...he...he killed my son! He...!"

"No. He did not. Loyal lords had exchanged him for a double beforehand, and smuggled him to safety. And when the time comes, I will have him sit on his throne, and all those who conspired and acted to see my brother's line ended and all those who rewarded them for it, dead at his feet. As the old saying goes, lesser men defy the dragonlords of Valyria at their own peril."

Elia stared at Jaenera. "...what?" she whispered.

Jaenera stood, and gestured at a hesitant Aegon. "Aegon," she said gently, and truly smiling for the first time since they met. "Won't you meet your mother?"

Aegon stared at Jaenera and then at Elia's shade. "Are you..." he whispered. "Are you really...are you really my mother?"

Elia stared at Aegon, and then slowly getting to her feet, staggered towards Aegon. "Aegon...my son..." she whispered. "You're...alive...you're alive!"

Crying in happiness, Elia pulled her son into an embrace, mother and son falling to the ground crying. Jaenera smiled at the sight, and then her face turned cold as she glanced at Rhaegar from the corner of her eyes. Colder her face grew, as she saw something...cross Rhaegar's face. She couldn't quite put her finger as to what it was, but she didn't like it.

"Thank you...thank you..." Elia babbled from the ground. "Whoever you are...no matter what you've done...thank you for letting me see my son one last time...one last time before I return to my rest."

"You are welcome, my niece."

"Niece?" Elia echoed.

And then Jaenera smiled, Elia and Rhaegar's eyes widening as Aelarys lumbered over, and snorted affectionately at his rider. Jaenera smiled up at her mount, and patted his snout. "I am Jaenera Targaryen," she said. "Lord Freeholder of House Targaryen, and youngest sister to Aenar Targaryen, called the Wise."

* * *

A/N

I LI~VE!

Ah, Highgarden and those wacky Tyrells. My favorite out of the castles of the Great Houses of Westeros, and my favorite among the Great Houses too. Compared to Winterfell or Casterly Rock, it's warm and homey, plus beautiful too (and the Tyrells are just so nice). I mean, yeah, they're no less ambitious, but at least they know how to be subtle about it, and in a way that doesn't piss off everyone around them.

Compare to Tywin 'Do as I say or I'll have you watch as your family is raped and then murdered' Lannister, or Ned/Robb 'Muh Honor' Stark. And let's not get into Fat Robert or Renly (respect for the Mannis though).

On other news today, we get Viserys get some much needed humble pie, at the realization that the Targaryens of the present truly are a pale shadow of what they once were. Jaenera shows off her skill in blood magic (I decided instead of something stereotypically-mystical to just go for a simple 'magic is bending reality to your will shaped by your words and fueled by life in the form of blood') to summon Rhaegar and Elia's shades from the dead. Yes, that means Aegon VI truly is who he claims to be, at least in this story.


	11. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I do not own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Return of Valyria

Chapter 10

"…impossible…" Rhaegar breathed. "The title of Lord Freeholder has not been in use since the days of the Freehold of Valyria. Those days are dead and gone. They are past, ended with the Doom, and will never come again. And my ancestor brought his entire family with him when he went to Dragonstone over three centuries ago. Who are you? And how have you…brought us, back into the world? What are you?"

Jaenera smiled wider, though there was sadness and pity there. "How you have fallen, my kin." She said. "Not only have you lost your wings, even the knowledge of the workings of the world is lost to you. Admittedly, the complexities of the mystery our ancestors used to save us from…the Doom, I suppose it is called, are not known to me. But they are, and that is enough."

Jaenera paused, and raised her arms theatrically, gesturing around her. "We have returned!" she loudly proclaimed. "From the depths of time, by the power of magic, Valyria has returned! We find ourselves in a world beset by chaos, anarchy, disorder, and barbarity! And so the mandate is obvious: to restore order, justice, and civilization to the world!"

Rhaegar stared in disbelief. "…but…how…I don't…" he said, unable to believe what was being told to him.

"My prince," Jon Connington began, and Rhaegar turned to him, ghostly eyes widening in recognition.

"Jon…?" he whispered. "Is that you?"

"Yes, it is I." Jon Connington said with a bow. "Jon Connington…once, I was Lord of Griffin's Roost. Once, I was Hand of the King to your father, Aerys, Second of His Name. And it was then that I failed you, for which I have never forgiven myself, when I allowed the Usurper to escape at the Battle of the Bells. And ever since then, I have devoted myself to atoning for that failure, in service to your son. And…no matter what else, I am, and always will be, your friend and loyal subject."

"Jon…you…"

"…your distant aunt speaks the truth, my prince." Jon Connington continued. "The details are unknown to me, but Valyria truly has returned. Even as we speak, legions march east and north, into Ghis and up the Rhoyne, to restore the Freehold of old, even as dragons once more dance in the skies above Essos."

"…it's true then…" Rhaegar breathed. "…but…even if Valyria has returned…you cannot be who you claim to be! Aenar Targaryen…!"

Jaenera clenched her fist around the glass candle in her hand, and causing blood to flow in streams over the volcanic glass, burning away in mere moments. Rhaegar's eyes widened as the blood shifted the currents of magic, and he _knew_. "I know not why my brother's descendants have forgotten my existence." Jaenera said. "Was it deliberate? Or was it also part of our family's losses over the years, along with your wings and the knowledge of the world's workings? It matters not. I am who I am. I am Jaenera Targaryen, daughter of Aerarion and Jaesa Targaryen, and younger sister to Aenar, Vhaesa, and Aeressa Targaryen. By virtue of my lineage and the purity of my blood, I claim with the recognition of the Assembly and People of Valyria the rank, status, and authority, of Lord Freeholder. So I declare!"

The glass candle flared, and Rhagar lowered his face. "…there can be no further doubt." He finally said after several moments. "You are who you claim to be."

Jaenera tilted her head. "So," Rhaegar began after another moment. "What will happen now?"

"The details will have to be determined relative to Valyria's interests." Jaenera said with a wave of her hand. "Nevertheless, I can guarantee that the Assembly will be unable to ignore the…potential, that my brother's line's legacy represents with regard to the Sunset Kingdoms. The Andals, or rather the upstart Lannisters' attempts to exterminate one of the Forty Families of the Azure Sky can also not be ignored. To do so sets a dangerous precedent, and demeans the whole nation. It will take time, but sooner or later, your son, heir to my brother's line, will be restored to his throne, and with a _proper_ Valyrian bride by his side."

"I…see…" Rhaegar said with narrowed eyes, knowing and understanding what was not said. His son would be restored to the Iron Throne, not as a ruler of an independent nation, but an overseer with a royal title, holding the whip and the leash for client kingdoms under the distant direction of the dragonlords and freeholders of the Lands of the Long Summer.

"You disapprove…?" Jaenera asked with narrowed eyes of her own.

"…I must be realistic." Rhaegar said with a sigh. "I suppose it is better than exile, with no chance of doing what must be done."

"…what do you mean by that?" Jaenera asked suspiciously.

Rhaegar met her eyes. "There is something you must know." He said, and Jaenera raised an eyebrow.

"I'm listening." She said.

Rhaegar took a deep breath, and then began to explain. He spoke of a prophecy, one made long ago, so much so that its true originator had since been forgotten. It spoke of a coming darkness, one that would consume the world, but for a hero who would stand against it, and bring back the dawn. That hero would be heralded by a 'bleeding star', would be born amidst 'salt and smoke', and would see the return of a 'dragon with three heads'.

That hero would be the Prince that was Promised, Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Elia Targaryen, who was born on the island of Dragonstone, amidst salt and smoke, on a night with a comet streaking through the sky in a trail of crimson. The 'dragon with three heads' would refer to himself, Rhaenys and Visenya, much as it had been with his ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, and together, they would stand against the coming darkness. Together, they would overcome it, and lead the world to a thousand years of peace and prosperity.

Rhaenys, however, had died at King's Landing. Visenya had never been born, whether of Elia or Lyanna Stark. But the prophecy must be fulfilled, and as Lord Freeholder of House Targaryen, Rhaegar laid upon Jaenera the task of ensuring the birth of Rhaenys and Visenya, and with them the other heads of the dragon.

So Rhaegar spoke, and at the end Jaenera was aghast with incredulity and seething with rage. "Let me get this straight," she hissed. "You broke the sacred trust of hospitality, started a war that killed tens of thousands of people, and culminated in the near-destruction of your – _our_ – family, all for a thrice-damned _prophecy_?"

"You do not believe?" Rhaegar asked in disbelief.

"Of course I don't!" Jaenera roared, and Jon Connington could have sworn then and there that her irises had turned into slits, and it seemed as though the skin around her eyes had a scaly, reptilian pattern to them. And whenever she spoke, it seemed as though her canines had become as fangs. "Prophecies are complete and utter trash! They have no meaning unless the people concerned actually believe in them, at which point they become self-fulfilling!"

"You do not know of what you speak." Rhaegar scoffed chidingly. "The prophecy you dismiss has been studied by generations of…"

"No, it is _you_ who does not know of what you speak!" Jaenera angrily interrupted. "You may claim that generations of supposed Andal sages and the priests of their seven gods have considered the prophecy and no doubt countless others like it to be valid, but what do they know? Those same sages _disdain_ magic and would rather the world exist without it, and those priests denounce any and all who practice the Art as accursed in the eyes of _their_ gods! They know nothing!"

"And you do?" Rhaegar challenged with a sneer.

"Yes."

That single word was full of such conviction that Rhaegar could only gape in response. "I learned the foundations of the Art from my sisters and mother." Jaenera said. "I learned the intricacies of the world's mysteries from a master of the Arcane Circles. And among the first things we learn is that the future is _always_ in motion. The deeds, thoughts, dreams and nightmares, hopes, aspirations, and fears of countless millions, along with the fickleness of random chance, all ensure that the future is _never_ set in stone. Therefore, this I know for a fact: prophecies are complete and utter trash."

"Then we must agree to disagree." Rhaegar said with a disappointed shake of his head. "But, regardless of your…"

"Indeed," Jaenera said with narrowed eyes, and with a sweeping gesture, banished Rhaegar's shade back to the other side of the veil. Scoffing in contempt, she took a deep breath, and briefly closed her eyes. Opening them once more, any draconic traits she _may_ have taken on in her wrath were gone.

"…Rhaegar may not have been as cruel as Aerys," Elia sadly said, still holding her son in her arms, young Aegon looking lost at what he'd heard his father speak of with his aunt. "But he was just as insane in his beliefs. He thought he was right, and nothing would dissuade him from it. Ever since Harrenhal, I knew…though he never spoke to me of his plans, even when he took the Stark girl and…the rest you know…"

"Yes," Jaenera said softly, walking over. For a moment, she stood tall, tall and beautiful as her kind had always been reputed to be. And then reaching out, she gently patted Aegon on the head, smiling a true smile that softened the inhuman, semi-divine façade of a Dragonlord of the Valyrian Freehold from its heyday. The Human being she still was in part could be seen now, and it softened the wariness Aegon still held her in.

She was family after all.

Blood of each other's blood.

"I wish I could do more." Jaenera said softly, sinking to one knee and looking at Elia in the eyes. "But to truly bring the dead back to life…it is beyond even the power of the masters of the first circle."

"It's alright." Elia's shade said. "I understand. Just this much…the gods might condemn what arts you have learned, but they are the same gods that cared little when a monster in Human form crushed my head with hands red with what could have been my son's blood, and another kept on stabbing my daughter long past her screaming came to an end. I care not…all that matters is that you gave me this chance. This one chance…to know my son lived…that justice will be done…and things will be set right. Thank you."

Jaenera nodded, and leaned back as Elia and Aegon embraced, the former's shade thinning and growing faint as the sorcery which kept her in the world of the living frayed and threatened to give way, to cast her back into the realm of the dead. "Aegon my son," Elia whispered while holding him tight. "I wish I could be there for you…with you…for all the days of your life. But no matter what else might happen…always knows that I am with you…watching over you…and that mother loves you very much…"

"…I wish so too, mother…" Aegon whispered, clutching tighter as he felt his mother's shade continue to lose its grip on the world. "…I love you too…and if you'll be watching…then I'll make you proud. I promise…no matter what…"

Elia pulled away, smiling as she stroked her son's face, her touch growing feebler and feebler as her form turned paler and paler, until at last she was gone, returned to the realm of the dead. Aegon sniffled as he wiped at his eyes, not resisting as Jaenera pulled him into an embrace, hugging her back as she rocked him back and forth.

She said nothing, for no words could be said, while nearby Jon Connington and the rest of the knights of the Golden Company bowed their heads, a fist placed against their chests in a salute to their fallen lieges.

* * *

Laemar Lennareon, Triarch of Valyria, pushed his way through a jeering and cursing crowd of Valyrian legionaries, accompanied by several other dragonlords. "Make way! Make way!" one of the latter shouted.

"Make way!" the cry went up.

"The triarch is passing through!" a response came.

"Let him pass!"

The legionaries parted, allowing the triarch and his companions to reach the cliff's edge, and from there they looked out over the waters of the Gulf of Grief, waves breaking against the cliffs below and on the island beyond, on which stood the city of New Ghis, and against the causeway that connected it to the mainland. Mighty walls towered around the city, broken at regular intervals by faceted towers, battlements shaped like snarling harpies. Men bustled on those battlements, the so-called 'iron legionaries' of the New Ghiscari Empire, supposed inheritors of the mantle of Old Ghis.

Also visible were a number of ragged and bloody figures, arms spread as they hung on wooden crosses raised on the walls, in what was clearly a message of defiance against the Valyrians amassed on the shore, and in the ships of the blockading fleet.

"They tortured and crucified them." One dragonlord breathed.

"Filthy Ghiscari!" another dragonlord thundered.

"They had no honor then, and they have no honor now!" a third dragonlord shouted.

"They're asking for a burning!" a fourth shouted, a shout that quickly drew an agreeing chorus, not just from the other dragonlords present, but also from the nearby legionaries.

"Assemble the legion commanders and captains in the war tent!" Triarch Laemar commanded, gritting his teeth at the sheer indignity his envoys had been subjected to. He had been prepared to allow New Ghis to stand, but their whore of a queen had abused his mercy.

He would see her pay for it.

It was less than an hour before the triarch assembled his senior subordinates in the war tent, and orders were issued. "Our objectives have changed." Triarch Laemar began. "I originally planned to take the city, and reduce it to a subject much like the cities further north. However, in light of the Ghiscari's…barbarity, against our envoys, those plans are no longer workable."

"We'll raze the city then?" Legion Commander Visemon Artalos asked.

"Yes." The triarch said with a nod, before gesturing at the map table before them all. On it was spread a map of New Ghis, provided by Valyria's (not so) new subjects further north. "The fleet will continue as they are, maintaining the blockade and making sure there is no escape. Any vessels attempting to do so are to be boarded, and the identities of the passengers and crew ascertained."

"The identities of the passengers and crew?" Grand Admiral Rhaegar Celennis asked.

Triarch Laemar nodded. "I want Queen Zikhakha as our prisoner." He said, while sweeping everyone around the table with his amethyst gaze. "The same goes for her family. Her consorts, her children, her relatives…I want them all."

"…if so," Legion Commander Jacaenyx Baelenos said. "The citadel of the heart of the city will be spared, at least initially?"

"Correct, commander." Triarch Laemar said. "Once the rest of the city is ash, we'll send our troops in to storm the citadel, and drag those Ghiscari rats out."

There was something about the way it was phrased that had everyone else looking at each other, and murmurs going up. "If I may, Honored Triarch," Lord Freeholder Aeramar Nohlaeris began. "From the sound of things, I assume the army will _not_ be the ones to raze the city?"

"You assume correctly, lord freeholder." Triarch Laemar said. "I think it's high time we reminded the Ghiscari who the true rulers of the sky are."

Pausing, the triarch pulled out a dagger and threw it at the icon of New Ghis' citadel. "We attack at dawn!" he ordered, and acknowledgements went up from the surrounding Valyrians.

* * *

The Sun climbed down the sky and dipped below the horizon as the day passed, the Moon rising up into the glittering sky. The light of torches speckled across the Valyrian lines and their camp beyond, as it did in the ships of their fleet and on the walls and towers of New Ghis. Both sides used bronze mirrors to focus and reflect light onto specific locations, highlighting wherever they were pointed at, and used them to augment the watches on the lookout for clandestine strikes. Whether an attempt to break the blockade, or to infiltrate the Valyrian lines and camp, or even the city of New Ghis as well.

Slowly, the Moon descended down the sky, the stars fading as the Sun rose to the east, staining the skies with rose and pearl. But as the brass trumpets of Queen Zikhakha Shesne, Ruler of New Ghis, Daughter of Harpies, Builder of Pyramids, Warden of the Steps to Heaven, Regent of the Gods on the Earth, Jewel of the Land, the Star-Crowned and Beloved Wonder of the World, heiress to a civilization that went back to before the Long Night greeted the rising of the Sun, distant roaring in the skies above answered their notes.

Eyes turned the skies above, eyes which then widened in fear and horror before alarms began to sound. Bells, gongs, horns, and Human voices filled the air, soldiers rushing to man the siege weapons built and positioned all across the city's battlements, even on the pyramids and palaces of the nobility and the city's rich and powerful, while the citizens panicked and sought to find any shelter they could.

Dozens of dragons flew around the city in a great spiral, dancing in the air while awaiting the command that would signal the passing of the death sentence for the city below, and the tens of thousands that dwelt within. The signal was given when Triarch Laemar banked steeply, and dived down onto the city. One by one, the other dragonlords followed, spiraling in towards New Ghis.

"Loose!" the order was given, steel-cored and tipped bolts lancing from dozens of ballistae, the treated wooden shafts bound with iron to further give them strength. Around and behind the triarch, other dragonlords spiraled away to avoid the lethal or more likely, debilitating projectiles.

The triarch didn't change course however, and it soon became clear why. Multiple bolts struck his mount at the same time, and then again, and again, and again, steel and wood utterly useless against scales harder than diamond. And then the dragon opened its maw as they began to level out, turned towards the battlements where soldiers struggled to reload their siege engines, and to bring bows and crossbows to bear.

"Dracarys!" Triarch Laemar shouted, and gold and red flame hot enough to melt stone on contact erupted from his dragon's maw.

Men didn't even have the time to scream, instantly reduced to ash by dragonfire, the masonry of the walls they were standing on flowing like water to spill onto the waters and cliffs below, sending plumes of steam hissing into the air on contact. An entire section of the city's defenses was reduced to a melted ruin before the triarch peeled off, and then the rest of the dragonlords were swooping in.

"Dracarys!" the word roared from dozens of throats, as the dragonlords unleashed their fury on the hated Ghiscari. Multicolored flame bathed the battlements, most not nearly as intense as that of the triarch's dragon, but still enough to turn stone incandescent, and for metal and glass to soften if not outright liquefy.

The Ghiscari broke against the onslaught, survivors turning tail to flee and abandoning their posts. Banners were desperately taken down and white flags of surrender raised in their place, but the Valyrians refused to relent.

New Ghis' gatehouse exploded in a shower of rubble as Triarch Laemer simply had his dragon ram both the gate and the surrounding masonry, the sheer mass of his mount enough to break the reinforced masonry. Despite this, the Valyrian Army made no effort to march in. The orders were clear.

New Ghis _would_ burn, and only then would they march into the ruins, to storm the citadel and drag the wretched queen and her ilk into captivity.

By now, not even half an hour after the sunrise, the walls and towers of New Ghis were in ruins, either reduced to half-melted slag, or glowing red-hot in the morning. And the dragonlords weren't finished.

They continued to dance in a great spiral above the city, closing the noose around the citadel and belching fire as they went. Masonry melted and glowed as the Valyrians raked the city with dragonfire, the screaming crowds and fleeing soldiers reduced to ash silently adrift on rising currents of superheated air.

A number of people and soldiers attempted to hide in the undercity. It did them no good. They either roasted to death from the heat of the stones or the earth above, or suffocated as the air was sucked out by the flames in the streets.

As the slave districts and the commons burned, the Valyrians moved on, to the noble districts. They fared no better, the pyramids of the nobility and the sprawling mansions of the merchants reduced to blackened, half-melted ruins and burning expanses that had once been tree-dotted, grassy, bush and shrub-covered gardens tended by slaves and attendants.

Many of the nobles and the merchants struggled to get into the citadel, but the royal guard had sealed and barricaded the gates, leaving them to die by dragonfire. That same dragonfire would ultimately blow the gates of the citadel open, even as legionaries marched through the ruins towards the only remaining structure of the city that remained standing.

Barely an hour after the Sun had risen, and New Ghis was nothing more than a smoldering funeral pyre.

It would be one that more than anything else would prove to the known world that Valyria had truly returned.

* * *

It was nearly sunset when the legionaries finally brought the triarch the prize he sought. He waited for them in what had once been an amphitheater for one purpose or another, but one which had become moot with the city's downfall. The stepped surroundings were cracked and blackened, but it was on them that the triarch awaited, accompanied by dragonlords and legion officers and men.

The queen's family were gathered at the opposite end, forced to their knees and fearfully cowering under the watchful eye of a dragonlord mounted on his dragon. But it was before Triarch Laemar that Queen Zikhakha was forced to kneel, the dragonlord looking down on her with contemptuous disdain.

For all her titles, for all her reputation as the most beautiful and desired woman of Ghiscar, it was clear that it was mere posturing and flattery. Her dark skin and hair were typical of the Ghiscari, but that was not necessarily something to be held against her.

But her face was fairly average, her nose too big, and judging by the amount of sweat-smeared makeup that covered her face, it was something the queen put great effort into correcting. Not that it particularly mattered now.

"You should have bargained when you had the chance, Ghiscari whore." Triarch Laemar remarked.

Queen Zikhakha spat at the triarch's feet, the legionaries holding her only kept from striking her at a gesture from a dragonlord standing next to the triarch. "You've won today, Valyrian." She snarled. "Your armies trample my lands, pillage my cities, and enslave my people. But your victory will not last. The Dothraki swarm at your doorsteps, your armies bleed across all of Essos…soon, your people will grow weak and infirm, and the Doom which your foul sorceries…!"

At another gesture from the dragonlord nearby, a legionary gagged the queen with – in a mocking gesture – a silken band. Triarch Laemar then approached, grabbing the queen by the chin with deceptive gentleness. "You harpies need to learn your place." He said silkily, before slapping her on one cheek.

The cheek smarted from the blow, but the queen refused to break, to show weakness, instead glaring at the triarch with hatred burning in her dark eyes. Triarch Laemar just smiled, and turning to the mounted dragonlord on the far side of the amphitheater, nodded.

"Dracarys!" the word was given, and dragonfire ended the line of Queen Zikhakha. Her eyes bulged from her sockets, and she struggled against her captors, muffled screaming coming through her gag as she tried to throw herself at the triarch with hands contorted into claws, only to be restrained by the legionaries holding her.

"Take her away." The triarch ordered. "Make sure she stays alive and well until our return to the homeland. I don't care if you have to use magic to do it, just make sure she does. It would not do for her to be unable to play her appointed role in our triumphal march through the Eternal City."

"It will be done, Honored Triarch." A legion sergeant said with a salute, before gesturing and barking orders at his subordinates. They saluted and dragged the broken and weeping queen away, while the triarch and his fellow dragonlords strode away.

"Once everything of value has been removed," the triarch ordered as they left. "Pull down the citadel. Once the ruins have cooled, raze them and then plow the land beneath. Sow it with salt. Let no plant nor beast nor man find life here."

"It will be done, Honored Triarch."

* * *

A/N

I told you I wouldn't white-wash the Valyrians. Some of you didn't believe me. Where is your supposed white-washing now?


	12. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I do not own _A Song of Ice and Fire_ it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.

Return of Valyria

Chapter 11

Jaenera stared at the sword she held partly-unsheathed in her hand, given to her by the Captain-General of the Golden Company following the finalization of their contract with Volantis the Great. Her eyes traced the smoky luster of the blade, the fluid swirl of half-legible glyphs and characters running over the metal, and then rising to the crossguard, took in the ruby at the center and the snarling dragon heads on either side. She knew this sword. And last she saw it, it was at her brother's hip.

"…Blackfyre." She whispered reverently. But of course: this was a sword traditionally possessed by the Lord Freeholder of their family, or their heir, and had been for over four thousand years.

They'd owned and lost or given away other blades in that same span of time, but Blackfyre had always remained with them. Or it should have been, had not that fat oaf of a despot Aegon the Unworthy given the sword to a short-sighted and overly-ambitious cadet of theirs, Daemon Blackfyre, and stained the sword's honor by turning it against the hand which had wielded it from the moment it had been forged in dragonfire.

Now though, it had been returned to her. Blackfyre had returned to Targaryen hands, where it belonged.

But…where was the other sword?

"…where is Dark Sister?" Jaenera asked. "By that, I do not mean to denigrate this gift, which is beyond value, but…Dark Sister and Blackfyre are…well, a mated pair. They were forged by the same smith, by the same dragon's breath, and from the same batch of dragonsteel even. So…?"

Miles Toyne, Captain-General of the Golden Company, lowered his head. "Apologies," he said. "But I do not know. The last anyone knew of that sword, Blood Raven, that is, Brynden Rivers, held the sword and took it with him to the Wall when Aegon the Unlikely exiled him for breaking the word of the Iron Throne. It likely remains there, but…"

The man trailed off, but Jaenera nodded in understanding before giving a heavy sigh. "I see." She said, before regarding Blackfyre once more, and then sheathing the blade lowered it. "I'll look into it further when I have the time and opportunity, but for now…again, I thank you for returning Blackfyre to me, and pointing me in the direction of my sword."

"Your sword?" Jon Connington asked.

Jaenera did not answer at once, instead looking up as she lost herself in her memories.

 _Aenar Targaryen stared at what his youngest sister was offering. "Jae, what…?" he began, only to be interrupted._

 _"Don't misunderstand." Jaenera said. "I'm not giving Dark Sister to you, not when you have Blackfyre already. And while Gaemon or Daenys might prove worthy of it one day, that won't be for at least another couple of decades. And big sister isn't nearly skilled enough in bladework…it belongs to me."_

 _"…so why?"_

 _Jaenera smiled. "Same reason I'm not coming with you to Dragonstone." She said. "In ten years or so…I expect this sword back, alright? Until then, I'm lending it to you."_

 _Brother and sister stared at each other for several long moments, and then Aenar sighed. "As always," he said with an air of exasperation. "You are such a pain in the neck, Jae."_

 _And then he smiled, and taking the sword, pulled her into an embrace. "Fine," he said, pulling away and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "If this turns out to be just me overreacting, we'll come back, and give you your sword back. Assuming either Gaemon or Daenys don't prove themselves worthier of it than you."_

 _Jaenera laughed. "We'll see." She said. "I'll hold you to everything you've just said, so don't you dare lose Dark Sister until then."_

 _"I don't intend to go down in family history as the one who lost one of two swords which have always belonged to the family." Aenar said, and Jaenera smiled wider._

 _"Go," she said. "The tide's turning. Even if I still disagree with your conclusions about Daenys' dreams, I don't want to get in your way either. Stay safe, big brother."_

 _Aenar smiled and putting a hand on Jaenera's head, ruffled her hair affectionately. "Likewise, little sister." He said. "I too hope that this is all just an overreaction."_

 _Jaenera nodded, and nodding back, Aenar turned towards and boarded his ship._

 _It would be the last time the siblings would ever see each other._

"…Dark Sister was my sword." Jaenera answered Jon Connington with a sigh. "I gave it to my brother to prove a point."

"A point?" the man asked, but Jaenera did not answer, and Jon Connington did not press. It was clearly a private matter.

* * *

Months after setting out from Dorne, Prince Oberyn's ship, the _Windrunner_ , finally arrived at their destination. Before them, the vast expanse of Volantis' lagoon stretched out far beyond the eye could see, so great that the whole of Braavos could be dropped therein and still there'd be room to spare. And yet there it was, barely visible over the distance, crowding across the shores of the sea and the river, Volantis the Great, Eldest Daughter of Valyria, with the proud span of the Bridge of Volantis crossing the lagoon at its widest point, made of the same black stone the dragonroads and the black walls of Volantis and Tyrosh's old cities, as well as Dragonstone in the Blackwater Bay were made of, smooth, hard, and strong, nigh-unbreakable by any force at man's disposal.

The lagoon was filled with many a ship. They ranged from river barges and fishing boats of various sizes, to short-distance coastal and patrol galleys, and long-distance trade ships such as cogs and carracks, with which the merchants and sailors of Volantis plied the waters as far east as Yi-Ti and Asshai-by-the-Shadow, to Lorath and Sarnor in the north, and before the recent war, even made the long journey west, to the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.

There were also warships as well, galleys and dromunds and carracks. Most flew the banners of Volantis, of course, but there were others as well, flying banners not seen in centuries: the golden dragon on red of the Valyrian Freehold.

Two of those warships now blocked the _Windrunner_ 's course, the latter having made for the docks on the eastern side of the lagoon, reserved solely for the Volantene Fleet, or those ships belonging to the Old Blood of Volantis. Men in brigandines and – in a source of irony – Rhoynar helmets stood at attention on the Volantene decks, crossbows held at the ready, though aimed not (for now) at the _Windrunner_ 's crew.

A gangplank was placed between the _Windrunner_ and one of the Volantene ships, allowing a pudgy and baldheaded man to cross over. He wore a plain yet with some examination, expensive robe of serviceable brown, while around his neck like a badge of office hung a chain of gold. "In the Name of the Triarchs and People of Volantis," he began in an officious tone. "I bid the ship's master to come forward, and declare by what right he seeks to make port in the eastern harbor."

Pushing past his crew, Prince Oberyn stepped forward, wearing a copper-hued shirt of cotton over cotton trousers in a darker yet similar shade. "I am Oberyn of House Martell of the Sun and Spear." He replied. "I claim the right to make port in the eastern harbor, and a place in the Old City, by my family's descent from Aegon of House Targaryen, Fourth of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Faith, through his daughter Princess Daenerys, wife and consort to Maron of House Martell, Lord of Sunspear and Prince of Dorne."

"Any can claim descent from such august ancestry," the official challenged. "But not all can present proof of such claim."

"But of course," Oberyn said, and holding out a hand, had one of the crew provide him with a series of official documents, all bearing the seal of his brother, Prince Doran Martell of Dorne. "And you will find that I and mine are among those."

The official took the papers, and briefly examined them. "Papers can be forged," he pointed out. "And while there are ways to authenticate them, they will take time to perform. Unless there is one among the Old Blood who can vouch for your claim?"

Oberyn smiled. "Indeed," he said with a nod. "I am acquainted with one Nesaria Eranaenor, though it has been some time since we last met and spoke. Nevertheless, if she is in the city, then she would be able to vouch for me, as indeed, that last time had me as a guest in one of her family's homes."

"…the House of Eranaenor is a known and respected one of the Old Blood." The official admitted. "Arrangements will be made to inquire to their good word with regard to your claim. Until then, you and yours will be required to remain aboard, and your ship will remain as it is."

"Very well," Oberyn said with a nod, and with a nod of his own the official turned and left. Oberyn looked on as the gangplank was removed, and as orders were shouted on the Volantene ships, turned to the _Windrunner_ 's captain. "Drop anchor, this might take some time."

"Yes, my prince." The man said with a nod, and turning away, gave orders while Oberyn walked towards the rail. As the ship's crew bustled about, and the chains of the _Windrunner_ 's anchor clinked its links against each other as it was unlatched and thrown overboard to sink into the depths beneath, Oberyn kept his eyes on the Volantene ships. One was changing course and making to leave, while the other was backing away, though still positioned as though to keep watch on and if need be, intercept the _Windrunner_ should it prove necessary.

Oberyn snorted at the thought, and fighting down a surge of impatience, turned to go below deck.

* * *

It was hours later that a response was received from Volantis, and Oberyn hurried up to the deck, head slightly hazed by several glasses of Dornish red. Nymeria Sand was standing on the deck, wearing a sleeveless dress of pale yellow, clearly waiting for her father.

"Mother is waiting for us." The girl of six and ten years said without preamble. "That ship which has been watching us for most of the day will guide us to port."

"…about time." Oberyn grumbled.

"You know how my mother's people can be." Nymeria said with a shrug.

"Hmm…" Oberyn hummed in agreement, leaning against the rail and keeping his eyes on the water as the _Windrunner_ weighed anchor and began to move, the crew rowing her towards the eastern part of the city. As they proceeded, the Sun continued its descent towards the western horizon, the afternoon light seeming to set the sky on fire and turning the mingled waters of the Rhoyne and the Summer Sea into blood.

Given the size of the lagoon, it still took the _Windrunner_ hours to reach the eastern harbor, by which time the sky above was turning dark, stars beginning to glimmer against the creeping velvet of night. With a splash, the _Windrunner_ 's anchor fell into the shallow waters of the harbor, and shouts were exchanged as lines were thrown and secured. The gangplank was lowered, and then Oberyn and Nymeria were descending, and then guided onto a raised walkway of cleanly-scrubbed wood which led to where a large litter of gilded wood and silken drapes was waiting for them.

"…Oberyn…" a feminine voice spoke as they approached, a slender hand ever so slightly pulling the drapes open. "…and my little Nymeria…though not so little anymore, I see."

"It has been a long time, mother." Nymeria said as she entered the litter, making sure to discard her sandals before doing so. A slave picked them up, along with Oberyn's shoes, as the prince joined his daughter and former paramour aboard the latter's litter.

A foreman barked an order, and a dozen slaves picked up the litter on their shoulders, and carried them away. The sound of boots striking the ground in unison accompanied them, no less than thirty household guards marching alongside to protect their lady and her guests as they headed to one of her homes in Old Volantis.

"…it has indeed." Nesaria said as she embraced her daughter warmly. And then Nymeria's eyes were going wide, the girl pulling away while staring at her mother, whose face – an older reflection of Nymeria's own save for violet Valyrian irises – smiled back at her. Nearby, Oberyn gave an amused laugh.

"Impressive," Nesaria said, bringing the dagger she'd taken from the back of her daughter's dress for a closer look, and briefly passed it under her nose. "Hmm…I see you favor a somewhat slow-acting poison…not too painful too, though…"

"…true," Nymeria admitted. "But they would feel their body grow numb and helpless, thus causing pain of a different kind."

"The pain of helplessness in the face of a superior foe." Nesaria said with a laugh, and leaning closer to her daughter, gave her a kiss on the forehead while replacing the dagger. As she pulled away, she ran her hands over her daughter's arms, and laughed again. "Seven daggers in all? All poisoned too, I imagine? Your father has taught you well."

"That I have." Oberyn remarked, having helped himself to Nesaria's dates in a nearby bowl of gilded bronze.

Nesaria scoffed while leaning back on her pillows. "So," she began. "I am not complaining, as it is good to see Nymeria again, but I must ask: why are you here, Oberyn?"

"You say you don't complain, and yet there's a certain undertone to your voice that says otherwise." Oberyn flippantly replied. "Why is that, I wonder?"

"You know as well as I do that my father was less than…pleased, at the outcome of our time together all those years ago." Nesaria said while taking a date for herself.

"And yet here we are." Oberyn remarked.

"Yes…here we are…times have truly changed…" Nesaria agreed with a slow nod. "…very much so…even natural-born, a dynastic link with one of the Forty Families is now more valuable than it has been in a very long time…"

"…is it true?" Oberyn asked. "Aenar the Exile's sister…is she truly here?"

"…she was here." Nesaria said with a nod. "That was several months ago, though. Now, she is far to the north, on her dragon along with many other dragonriders, fighting to bring Norvos and Qohor to heel."

Oberyn laughed long and hard, prompting Nesaria to turn away and to offer dates to her daughter in the meantime. Nymeria took a handful with a grateful nod. "…I imagine you are here to enlist her aid in avenging your sister and her children." Nesaria said as Oberyn's mirth ran its course.

"…yes." Oberyn admitted after a moment.

"I don't think it will be that difficult." Nesaria said. "I've heard that when she found out what happened to her brother's descendants, Lord Freeholder Targaryen stormed out of the assembly chamber, and needed to be given a verbal command by one of the Valyrian Triarchs to keep from going on rampage."

"…sounds like a woman I can get along with." Oberyn said with a grin.

Nesaria gave an elegant roll of her eyes. "Perhaps," she said. "Perhaps not…in any case, as I've said she is currently fighting the war, and you'll have to wait until she returns to speak with her. Though, I must point out, you are not the first to come here to seek her aid in avenging your sister and her children."

"…oh?"

Nesaria gave a bemused laugh. "Yes…" she said while taking a date and giving it a small bite. "Quite a number of them have shown up over the past few months…whether exiles from that war which threw down the Targaryen Kings years ago…or those who suddenly remembered their loyalty in the face of a Targaryen with a dragon at her beck and call…there are thousands of them at least in the western city, and they all long for the day when she returns from the north. The last of the Targaryen dragonlords…or at least the only actual one…"

"…I've heard loyalists were gathering here at Volantis." Oberyn said before narrowing her eyes. "Though that is a good point. There are the truly loyal ones, whether those who chose exile than bow to the Usurper, or those who made a show of bowing but inwardly swore to bide their time until the time was right to set things back the way they ought to be…and then there are who are only loyal so long as the winds blow their way."

"And of course those who feign loyalty only as a means to get close before striking with poisoned daggers…" Nesaria said with a slow nod. "Lord Freeholder Targaryen should take care, though I'm certain she already knows that."

"Hmm…" Oberyn thoughtfully hummed while biting down on a date.

"…mother?" Nymeria began.

"Yes, child?" Nesaria asked.

"What do you mean by that last?" Nymeria asked. "You referred to Lord Freeholder Targaryen as the only actual dragonlord of her family…do you mean…?"

"Ah…very perceptive of you, my dear." Nesaria said with a nod. "Yes…they are here. They arrived some weeks ago, and indeed will be joining us for dinner tonight…Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen…"

* * *

"Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen…" Oberyn breathed. "You really are alive…both of you…"

"Prince Oberyn…" Viserys said with a small bow, Daenerys giving a shy curtsy next to him. "I remember your uncle, Prince Lewyn in my father's Kingsguard. He was a good man, loyal and true, brave and noble…"

"…yes…he was…" Oberyn said, his eyes going distant as he remembered his uncle, and then his eyes hardened as he remembered the circumstances of his death. "And I have not forgotten the cause he died for, unlike two of his so-called brothers."

"Turncoat Barristan…and Jaime the Kingslayer…" Viserys said with narrowed eyes.

Oberyn gave a chilling smile. "I suppose we can only hope your aunt gives us the opportunity to deal with those two ourselves." He said. "Death by dragonfire is too quick and merciful, don't you think?"

"…I suppose so." Viserys agreed after a moment. "My aunt, huh…"

"Last I hear she was fighting far to the north…" Oberyn said, gesturing at Nymeria who coaxed Daenerys away to walk around the interior garden of the manse, leaving Viserys and Oberyn to talk under a vine-covered trellis.

"Hmm…"

"…do you have a problem with your aunt, Prince Viserys?" Oberyn asked curiously, and taking a pair of filled wineglasses offered by a slave, offered one to Viserys.

"It's not that." Viserys said with a sigh. "It's just that…thinking about her and what she's doing…it's…it just really drives home the fact that we've lost everything. Not just our home and birthright, but what makes us…what makes us Targaryens in the first place."

"…then you'll have to get it back, don't you?"

"I suppose we must." Viserys said with another sigh. "Though, that's going to have to wait until she comes back from the war."

Oberyn shrugged. "It's unavoidable, I'm afraid." He said.

Viserys was silent for several moments, sipping at his wine as he watched Daenerys and Nymeria wandering around the garden. "How are things in Westeros?" he finally asked.

"The Usurper's grip on power seems to be firm after he put the Ironborn to the sword during Balon Greyjoy's idiotic attempt at independence." Oberyn said while sitting down on a bench nearby. "And with two sons of his own now he has an heir and a spare to carry on his name should anything happen to him."

"What of the Lords Paramount?" Viserys asked.

"…you're better off writing off everyone north and east of the Reach, Prince Viserys." Oberyn said after a moment. "Just about all of them fought to put the Usurper on the throne, and I wouldn't be surprised if Stark's elder daughter is eventually betrothed to the Usurper's heir to secure their alliance for another generation."

"And the Tyrells?"

Oberyn snorted and took a drink. "Mace Tyrell is an opportunist." He said. "I know, I know…not really the best ally, but he still has an army of a hundred thousand at his command. Dragons might be able to destroy armies and castles all on their own, but you can't hold land without an army."

"…can we really trust that man?" Viserys skeptically asked.

"Like I said," Oberyn said. "He's an opportunist. He'll be loyal to whoever offers him the best deal. And the best deal is the one that doesn't end with him and his entire family roasting in dragonfire."

"Humph…" Viserys snorted. "What about Dorne?"

Oberyn's eyes went flat. "Oh, don't worry about us." He said. "We're just waiting for the right time, and when it comes, we'll be there to finish the fight, and to take our pound of flesh from the Usurper and his dogs. Not just for my uncle…but also for my sister and her children…the Usurper and his dogs will beg for a quick death."

Viserys snorted, and then laughed. "It's strange, isn't it, Prince Oberyn?" he asked. "Our ancestors were mortal enemies, both here and in Westeros, and this city we're in was a cause for many wars between the Rhoynar and the Valyrians…and yet here and now…"

"…we find common ground against the wrongs done to our families by a single man and his treacherous confederates…" Oberyn said with a nod before taking another drink. "…yes…it really is strange…but does it matter?"

Viserys stared at Oberyn for a long moment, and then he turned away. "No…" he said. "No it doesn't."

The two princes were silent for a long while, and then Oberyn spoke up again. "How'd you get to Volantis?" he asked softly. "The last we'd heard, you were at Braavos, but then there were reports of riots and of Valyrian-blooded people being driven out into the wilderness or just being killed. We feared the worst."

"…Ser Willem gave his life to let me and Dany escape." Viserys answered softly. "Like your uncle, he was a brave and loyal man."

"Just like his brother, Ser Jonothor." Oberyn sadly remarked.

Viserys nodded just as sadly. "…we and many other refugees made our way south, and eventually arrived at Myr." He said. "A magister recognized us, and took us in."

"Strange…" Oberyn said with narrowed eyes. "Last I heard, Myr along with the rest of the Three Daughters are following Braavos' lead in embargoing…ah, I see…so that's how it is."

Viserys nodded. "The magisters of Myr seek to cut a deal with Valyria." He said. "It will help that unlike Lys and Tyrosh, neither of them have a history of turning on and killing dragonlords in the wake of the Doom. I simply do not see Valyria not exacting a pound of flesh of their own from Lys and Tyrosh in the face of such…historical, fact."

Oberyn nodded and emptied his glass. A nearby slave moved forward to refill it. "I imagine said scheme of the Myrish is a secret one." He remarked.

"It is." Viserys said. "And, as you might have guessed, our presence here in Volantis is a…show of good faith, on Myr's part."

Oberyn nodded again. "I can see how." He said. "They took in two male-line descendants of one of the Forty Families, and rather than keep them as hostages in all but name, turned them over to those openly on Valyria's side. That's enough for a talk when the time is right. Though…Myr's still embargoing Volantis and Valyria, aren't they?"

Viserys shrugged. "They can't openly move against the western cities." He said. "Not yet…they'd be caught between Braavos to the north, and Lys and Tyrosh to the south. So for now, they're feeding inside information to Volantis and Valyria, and like Dorne with regard to the Usurper, when the time comes…"

"…they'll stab the westerners in the back." Oberyn said with a grin. "I like it. Though, how and what are they telling the Volantenes and Valyrians?"

"I don't know." Viserys admitted. "I haven't been made privy to either of those, and while it was a bit galling at first, after having thought about it…it makes sense."

Oberyn nodded. "True…" he said before taking a drink. "So, what have you been doing all this time?"

"Brushing up on my High Valyrian," Viserys said without hesitation. "And looking up dragonlore from the archives I can get into here in Old Volantis. That I'm a Targaryen goes a long way, and Lady Nesaria has been of help there as well. I've also been teaching Dany High Valyrian, though I've largely left that to Lady Nesaria's household."

Oberyn nodded in approval. "Sounds good…" he began, only to break off as one of the household appeared.

"Prince Viserys…Prince Oberyn…" the man said. "My lady has asked me to inform and guide you to where tonight's meal has been prepared and served."

Oberyn stood up while Viserys looked to where more members of the household were gathering Nymeria and Daenerys to take them to the dining room, and then he looked back to Oberyn. "Now then," Oberyn said. "Shall we go and see if Nesaria's cooks are as good as I remember them?"

Viserys gave a smile at that. "Lead the way, Prince Oberyn." He said.

* * *

A/N

Update time, starting with Jae getting her hands on a piece of history, plus a flashback. Then we finally get back to Oberyn and Viserys, both of whom are finally in Volantis. Canonically, we don't have a name for Nymeria Sand's mother, only that she was among the Old Blood of Volantis. Since she didn't have a name in canon, I gave her one here.


End file.
